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DIANA   VICTRIX 


A   NOVEL 


BY 


FLORENCE   CONVERSE 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,   MIFFL1N  AND   COMPANY 

«»£,  <£ambri&0e 
1897 


COPYRIGHT,  1897,  BY  FLORENCE  CONVERSE 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


TO  MY  MOTHER 

THIS   BOOK    IS    LOVINGLY    DEDICATED 


1782J30 


1  The  last  was  a  strong-minded  monadess, 
Who  dashed  amid  the  infusoria, 
Danced  high  and  low,  and  widely  spun  and  dove, 
Till  the  dizzy  others  held  their  hreath  to  see." 
EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL. 


CONTENTS 

PRELUDE 

PAGE 

JEANNE,  JACQUES,  AND  JOCELIN 1 

BOOK   I 
"SPINSTERS  ALL  AND  BACHELORS  MERRY" 

CHAPTER 

I.  A  FAMILY  COUNCIL, 

II.  JACQUES'  OWN  WAY 

III.  THE  ARRIVAL      .        .        .        .        . 

IV.  Two  OLD  MAIDS 

V.   JACQUES'  SISTER 

VI.   ROMA  CAMPION  CALLS 

VII.    SYLVIA  GOES  TO  THE  OPERA     .... 

BOOK   II 

JEANNE'S  WINTER 

I.  MATRIMONY  SERIOUSLY  CONSIDERED     .        .        .  127 

II.   THE  ASPIRATIONS  OF  OUR  WOMKN   .        .        .  136 

III.  THE  CARNIVAL 152 

IV.  CURTIS  BAIRD  GIVES  A  DINNER         .        .        .  169 
V.   BETWEEN  FRIENDS 180 

VI.  ASH  WEDNESDAY 193 

VII.  THE  COMING  OF  SPRING  .    200 


Vill  CONTENTS 

BOOK  III 

ON    THE    MOUNTAIN    TOP 

I.   CURTIS  BAIRD'S  HAPPY  VALLEY       .        -        .  213 

II.   CLIMBING  THE  MOUNTAIN 225 

III.  JACQUES  AND  ENID 231 

IV.  MORE  WOMAN'S  RIGHTS 244 

V.     JOCELJN    AND   SYLVIA 254 

VI.   DURING  THE  WEE  SMA'  HOURS     ....  263 

VII.   THE  DAWN 275 

VIII.    JOCELIN    GOES   FORTH   TO    CONQUER          .  .  .  284 


BOOK   IV 

"MAN,    OH,    NOT   MEN!" 

I.  MONSIEUR  ADVISES 291 

II.  JACQUES'  BROTHER 300 

III.  SYLVIA  BEGINS  TO  BE  SOMEBODY      .        .        .  311 

IV.  JOCELIN,  SAVIOR! 321 

V.   "  IF  AT  FIRST  You  DON'T  SUCCEED  "         .        .  333 

VI.  SYLVIA  UNDERSTANDS 342 

VII.   A  BOOK  AND  A  BABY 357 


PRELUDE 

JEANNE,  JACQUES,  AND  JOCELIN 


DIANA  VICTRIX 


PRELUDE 

THE  gray  clouds  drooped  above  the  murky 
waters  of  the  lake,  and  there  was  a  listening  hush 
upon  all  things.  Jocelin  was  singing.  Under 
the  bath-house  he  hung,  just  above  the  water;  his 
attitude  was  Promethean.  Only  a  growing  boy 
could  have  invented  and  endured  so  uncomfort- 
able and  tortuous  a  posture ;  only  a  growing  boy 
could  have  twined  his  arms  and  legs  among  the 
rungs  of  the  bath-house  ladder  as  Jocelin's  were 
twined.  They  were  thin,  brown,  bare  arms  and 
legs,  and  they  hugged  the  slimy  ladder  with  a 
serpentine  tenacity.  Jocelin's  head  was  thrown 
back  as  far  as  the  ladder  would  permit,  and  his 
stomach  extended  forward  in  inverse  ratio,  while 
out  of  his  mouth  floated  the  melody,  sweet,  pas- 
sionate, solemn,  hushing  the  air  to  stillness.  It 
was  something  from  "La  Juive,"  a  duet,  and 
Jocelin  sang  both  parts :  — 

"  O  ma  fille  ch^rie,  0  ma  fille  ch^rie  !  " 

The    voice    thrilled    through    and    through   with 


4  DIANA    VICTRIX 

paternal    anguish,  —  and    Jocelin    would    be   ten 
years  old  his  next  birthday. 

It  was  not  a  soprano  voice;  it  was  low  and 
brimming  with  sweet  music;  and  in  the  heart  of 
every  note  there  was  a  cry,  and  Jocelin  heard  the 
cry,  but  could  not  understand.  It  was  a  voice 
to  love,  and  Jocelin  loved  it,  —  more  than  his 
mother,  more  than  his  baby  sister  and  his  old 
colored  mammie;  more  than  the  beauty  of  white 
nights,  when  there  was  a  silver  moon-path  wide 
across  the  fluttering  lake,  he  loved  it.  And 
every  one  who  heard  the  voice  loved  it ;  already 
Jocelin  had  begun  to  know  the  intoxication  of 
power;  already  he  had  begun  to  thirst  for  the 
mysterious  exaltation  of  moments  when  his  fellow- 
beings,  sitting  around  him,  were  as  statues,  while 
their  souls  were  gathered,  passive,  into  the  hollow 
of  his  hand.  And  Jocelin,  when  he  thought  upon 
those  wizard  moments  afterwards,  thought  with 
his  lips  parted  and  smiling,  and  the  breath  com- 
ing quickly. 

But  to-day  he  sang  to  the  clouds  and  the  lake. 
And  the  bath-house  above  him  sent  his  voice 
ringing  down  and  out  over  the  water.  He  liked 
to  sing  under  the  bath-house,  because  there  was 
so  much  vibration.  In  this  hour  he  had  forgot- 
ten the  world  and  its  subtle  temptings  to  ambi- 
tion, and  had  lost  himself  in  the  delight  of  his 
own  effort :  — 

"  O  ma  fille  ch^rie,  O  ma  fille  ch^rie  !  " 


PRELUDE  5 

Jocelin's  eyes,  deep,  liquid,  brown,  were  full  of 
a  pensive,  unseeing  sorrow  as  they  gazed  into  the 
cloudy  distance,  and  the  singing  mouth  was 
curved  in  wistful  sadness  below  the  short  upper 
lip.  A  narrow,  long  face  he  had,  brown  and 
lean,  — this  was  when  you  stood  in  front  of  him. 
Seen  in  profile,  Jocelin's  prominent  feature  was 
his  nose ;  all  his  other  lineaments  were  swallowed 
up  in  this  one ;  like  a  blank  wall  it  arose  from  his 
face,  —  nay,  rather,  it  was  his  face,  for  when, 
wishing  to  describe  his  profile,  one  had  said  Joce- 
lin  had  a  nose,  there  was  nothing  more  to  say. 
The  backward  droop  of  his  chin  was  noticeable 
later. 

It  was  an  ancestral  nose:  from  generation  to 
generation  it  had  been  handed  down  through  the 
race,  and  when,  finally,  it  descended  upon  Joce- 
lin,  neither  time  nor  intermarriage  had  softened 
its  angles  or  diminished  its  size.  It  was  not  a 
hooked  nose ;  there  was  nothing  Jewish  in  its  con- 
tour; it  was  an  exaggerated  Roman,  and  sprang 
forth  abruptly,  thin  and  broad  as  the  blade  of 
a  carving-knife,  between  Jocelin's  limpid  eyes. 

There  was  a  portrait  of  Jocelin's  earliest  known 
ancestor  in  the  parlor  of  the  old  house  in  New 
Orleans,  a  portrait  in  profile  of  a  mass  of  curled 
hair  from  which  there  protruded  a  nose.  Of 
course  one  knew  at  a  glance  that  the  hair  was  a 
wig,  one  of  those  monstrous  objects  affected  by 
the  courtiers  of  the  "Grand  Monarque."  But 


6  DIANA   VICTEIX 

that  the  nose  was  not  likewise  an  adjunct  it  took 
more  than  a  glance  to  determine.  One  usually 
decided  the  question  in  this  manner :  — 

"But,  if  the  nose  also  is  false,  it  must  be  that 
the  ancestor  has  been  omitted  from  the  picture. 
Assuredly  a  serious  oversight  on  the  part  of  the 
painter." 

Young  Jocelin,  however,  was  a  living  voucher 
for  the  reputation  of  that  painter.  Only  the 
year  before,  he  had  stood  beneath  the  portrait, 
and,  laying  two  fingers  on  the  side  of  his  nose, 
had  said  reflectively :  — 

"Even  now  it  is  almost  as  large  as  your  own, 
mon  ai'eul." 

It  will  be  observed  that  Jocelin  was  French. 
The  first  part  of  the  above  remark  is  a  transla- 
tion, Jocelin's  knowledge  of  English  being  lim- 
ited, at  that  time,  to  such  phrases  as:  "Ow  do 
you  do?"  and  "Mair  Kreesmus!  " 

The  French  also  was  inherited  from  the  an- 
cestor. There  were  many  things  in  the  life  of 
Jocelin,  besides  the  nose,  for  which  the  ancestor 
was  responsible.  There  was  the  artistic  tempera- 
ment, for  example.  The  ancestor  had  written 
poems,  and  fairy  tales,  and  masques.  Other 
things  also  he  had  done  which  were  not  as  bene- 
ficial to  the  race,  but  which  were  included  in 
the  inheritance.  Jocelin  had  aristocratic  blood  in 
his  veins,  his  mother  said.  It  might  easily  be 
imagined. 


PRELUDE  7 

There  had  been  a  title,  too,  but  evidently  it 
had  not  possessed  the  enduring  qualities  of  the 
remainder  of  the  endowment,  for  when  Jocelin 
came  into  the  world  he  came  without  it. 

The  ancestor  had  written  poems  and  fairy  tales ; 
this  Jocelin  could  never  do.  The  music  in  him 
came,  not  from  his  brain,  but  from  his  lungs  and 
vocal  chords ;  and  every  low,  sweet  note  of  that 
strange  child-voice  was  a  revealing  of  the  record 
of  those  lives,  wild,  passionate,  dissolute,  artisti- 
cally tempered,  from  which  Jocelin's  frail,  worn- 
out,  young  vitality  had  feebly  taken  its  rise. 
But  although  the  ancestor  had,  undoubtedly,  much 
to  answer  for  in  regard  to  the  constitutional 
weaknesses  of  his  young  kinsman,  justice  requires 
the  statement  that  the  boy's  mother  herself  —  she 
was  not  a  descendant,  being  a  kindly  woman,  but 
of  no  blood  —  was,  to  a  large  extent,  accountable 
for  the  aggravation  of  those  weaknesses.  If  she 
had  had  a  grudge  against  him,  some  excuse  could 
be  made  for  her ;  but  as  she  adored  him,  the  fact 
that  she  reared  him  in  his  earliest  infancy  upon 
tea  and  claret  is  not  easily  pardoned. 

At  the  age  of  two,  Jocelin  began  to  go  to  the 
opera,  and  long  before  he  was  out  of  dresses  he 
was  a  connoisseur  in  voices  and  could  tell  you 
how  different  notes  ought  to  be  taken,  and  why 
such  and  such  a  singer  failed  to  create  an  effect 
in  such  and  such  a  melody.  To  hear  his  "En- 
core! encore!  bravo!"  when  the  tenor  rendered 


8  DIANA    VICTBIX 

a  difficult  passage  with  especially  careful  art,  or 
to  see  him  wince  when  the  falcon's  high  notes 
grew  a  shade  too  sharp,  was  as  instructive  and 
entertaining  as  the  opera  itself.  In  the  first 
years  of  his  attendance  he  sometimes  dozed  dur- 
ing the  intermissions,  if  the  previous  act  had  not 
been  too  exciting;  but  at  the  first  of  the  three 
raps  which  announced  the  rising  of  the  curtain 
he  was  awake,  alert,  on  his  feet,  his  chin  resting 
upon  the  velvet  rim  of  the  partition  which  sepa- 
rated the  box  from  the  aisle.  It  was  always  a 
loge  grillee,  —  a  retired  family  box,  excellent  for 
hearing,  and  for  seeing,  too,  when  the  lattice  was 
thrown  back,  —  the  same  box,  year  after  year, 
till  it  grew  as  homelike  and  familiar  to  him  as 
the  picture  of  his  ancestor. 

This  was  before  his  father's  death  three  years 
ago.  Since  then,  Jocelin  had  gone  but  seldom  to 
the  opera,  and  when  he  did  go  he  sat  beside  his 
mother  in  the  parquet  and  dangled  his  legs.  It 
was  less  comfortable,  but  it  made  him  feel  more 
grown-up,  and  between  the  acts  he  was  allowed 
to  go  up  in  the  foyer  and  the  corridors.  The 
first  time  he  did  this,  he  peeped  into  "our  box." 
It  was  very  rude  of  him,  and,  being  a  little 
French  boy,  he  realized  it  and  said,  "Pardon, 
madame!"  in  his  best  manner  to  the  lady  who 
sat  there,  but  he  could  not  help  feeling  as  if  she 
and  not  he  were  the  intruder. 

This  was  only  one  of  the  changes  apparently 


PRELUDE 

due  to  the  death  of  his  father.  Another,  a  less 
important  one  in  the  eyes  of  Jocelin,  was  the 
coming  of  Jeanne.  She  arrived  about  three 
months  after  his  father's  departure,  and  he  was 
told  that  she  was  his  sister.  He  took  the  an- 
nouncement calmly,  until  some  one  said  that  her 
appearance  on  the  scene  had  put  his  nose  out  of 
joint,  and  then  he  grasped  his  ancestral  feature 
and  burst  into  tears,  crying:  — 

"It  is  already  so  large  that  the  boys  laugh, 
but  to  be  out  of  joint  as  well,  — oh,  what  an 
affliction !  " 

But  it  came  about  gradually  that,  beyond  the 
fact  that  he  found  Jeanne  a  pretty  plaything  so 
long  as  she  did  not  pull  his  hair,  —  or  his  nose, 
—  she  made  very  little  difference  in  his  comfort 
or  discomfort  in  this  world.  He  had  a  way  of 
arranging  his  affairs  to  suit  himself.  His  own 
voice  consoled  him  for  the  loss  of  the  opera,  and 
of  late  he  had  discovered  that  Jeanne,  too,  could 
sing,  and  he  found  it  entertaining  to  teach  her. 

"  O  ma  fille  ch^rie,  O  ma  fille  ch^rie  !  " 

There  was  a  splashing  to  the  right  of  the  bath- 
house, and  presently  another  boy  came  walking 
through  the  water  and  stood  beside  the  ladder  in 
silejice,  save  for  his  quick  breathing.  Jocelin 
made  no  sign  of  recognition,  but,  directing  his 
eyes  absently  towards  the  new-comer,  continued 
to  sing  without  a  pause. 


10  DIANA    VICTRIX 

The  water  was  very  low  under  the  bath-house ; 
it  came  just  above  the  boy's  knees  as  he  stood 
there,  a  sun-browned,  glistening,  sturdy  thing,  his 
legs  planted  apart,  his  hands  on  his  hips,  his 
muscular  chest  heaving.  The  water  trickled 
down  his  chin,  which  was  square  and  firm,  and 
off  the  end  of  his  straight  nose ;  drops  clung  to 
the  long  dark  lashes  which  shadowed  his  keen 
gray  eyes.  He  tossed  his  close-cropped  head  and 
drew  one  arm  smearingly  across  his  face.  He 
was  attentive  to  the  music ;  one  could  see  that  he 
enjoyed  it  healthily.  He  stared  at  Jocelin  with 
flattering  admiration ;  then  (so  quickly  the  thought 
came  that  his  countenance  did  not  change)  he  put 
forth  his  hand  and  tickled  the  sole  of  Jocelin 's 
bare  foot. 

The  melody  ended  with  a  howl  and  a  French 
execration.  The  boy  laughed,  and  Jocelin,  rag- 
ing and  writhing,  at  last  freed  his  insulted  limb 
from  the  entangling  ladder  and  kicked  impa- 
tiently into  the  air. 

"I  swam  from  the  big  wharf,"  said  the  boy, 
also  in  French,  standing  at  a  safe  but  tantalizing 
distance  and  endeavoring  to  change  the  subject. 

"Yanhh!"  said  Jocelin. 

"I  could  hear  you  singing  as  far  as  that,"  the 
boy  continued,  with  a  placatory  uplifting  of  his 
straight  black  brows. 

"Then  why  didn't  you  stay  there?"  growled 
Jocelin,  sullen  but  mollified. 


PRELUDE  11 

"But  you  are  conceited,  yes!  "  The  boy's  eye- 
brows went  up  this  time  superciliously.  "And 
you  think  I  came  all  this  way  to  hear  you  sing?  " 

"I  despise  you!  "  said  Jocelin. 

"I  have  some  news." 

"Keep  it!" 

"It  concerns  you!  " 

"You  are  a  large  bag  of  wind! " 

"  I  intend  to  tell  you,  even  if  you  do  not  wish 
to  hear  it." 

"I  shall  stop  my  ears!  "  Jocelin  attempted  to 
suit  the  action  to  the  word,  but  the  ladder  pin- 
ioned his  arms.  At  best  he  could  close  but  one 
ear,  for  if  he  freed  both  arms  he  must  fall.  He 
yelled  to  drown  the  offending  communication, 
but  the  other  boy  shouted  also.  They  were 
dreadful  words ;  each  one  sounded  as  loud  as  the 
beat  of  a  bass-drum  in  Jocelin's  ears:  — 

"My  father  is  going  to  marry  your  mother." 

"You  lie!  "  shrieked  Jocelin. 

"I  shall  punch  your  head!  "  said  the  boy,  get- 
ting red  and  sending  sparks  from  his  gray  eyes. 
"And  I  would  assuredly  do  it,  if  you  were  not  so 
little  and  scrawny,  and  younger  than  I." 

"Who  told  you  that?  "  demanded  Jocelin. 

"My  father,  and  he  does  not  tell  a  lie,  — no, 
never !  He  said,  '  My  son,  I  have  something  of 
interest  to  communicate  to  you, '  and  he  laid  his 
hand  upon  my  head."  The  boy  laid  his  own 
hand  upon  an  imaginary  head  "descriptively. 


12  DIANA    VICTRIX 

"Then  he  said,  '  Madame  Castaigne  has  done  me 
the  honor  of  accepting  my  addresses ;  the  wedding 
will  take  place  in  October,  after  we  return  to  the 
city.  You  will  be  a  good  son  to  her,  my  child ! ' 
And  I  replied,  '  Yes,  my  father, '  and  moreover 
I  did  not  cry  like  a  baby."  Large  tears  were 
streaming  down  Jocelin's  thin  cheeks.  "I  went 
down  to  the  big  wharf  and  I  threw  off  my  clothes 
and  dived  over,  and  I  heard  you  singing;  so  I 
said  to  Antoine,  who  was  fishing,  '  You  bring 
my  clothes  to  the  Castaigne  bath-house  in  your 
pirogue ;  I  shall  dress  there, '  and  I  came  to  tell 
you." 

The  boy  used  his  hands  while  he  spoke,  and 
his  gestures  gave  color  to  his  words,  —  one  saw 
him  dive,  and  wave  his  farewell  to  the  obliging 
Antoine. 

"I  hear  the  boat  now,"  he  continued,  and  ran 
out  from  under  the  bath-house,  returning  pres- 
ently with  a  small  bundle  of  blue  cottonade  and 
white  linen.  It  was  apparent  that  his  clothes 
consisted  of  but  two  garments ;  nor  could  Jocelin 
boast  of  more,  —  blue  cottonade  short  trousers 
and  a  white  shirt  with  pink  speckles  in  it,  un- 
buttoned at  his  brown  bird-throat. 

"I  cannot  see  why  my  mother  should  desire  to 
marry  your  father,"  said  Jocelin  piteously,  his 
face  streaked  and  wet  with  tears. 

"As  for  my  father,  he  is  a  very  fine  man," 
said  the  other  vigorously.  "I  will  not  deny  that 


PRELUDE  13 

my  taste  is  not  his  in  the  matter  of  wives.  For 
myself,  I  prefer  a  woman  who  has  not  quite  so 
markedly  the  figure  of  a  cotton-bale;  but  my 
father  is  a  man  of  individuality, —  he  does  not  go 
by  the  outside." 

Jocelin's  mouth,  which  had  opened  aggres- 
sively at  the  word  "cotton-bale,"  closed  with  a 
baffled  expression,  and  his  future  relative  contin- 
ued:— 

"There  will  happily  now  be  some  one  to  touch 
you  up  on  occasion  with  a  peach-tree  switch." 

"And  if  he  do  I  will  kill  him!  "  snarled  Joce- 
lin. 

"Snipe!  "  said  the  other  boy  scornfully. 

Jocelin  was  weeping  from  helpless  rage. 
"  And  if  I  did  not  know  that  I  must  go  to  bed  if 
I  fall  in  the  lake  and  these  trousers  are  wet,  I 
should  come  down  and  tear  your  face  ;  but  it  is 
not  for  your  sake  that  I  shall  go  to  bed, —  no!  " 
he  shouted  vehemently. 

There  was  a  pitter-patter  of  little  feet  above 
on  the  wharf,  and  a  baby  voice  called  caress- 
ingly :  - 

"Jacques!  Jacques!" 

Jocelin  still  glowered,  but  the  boy  with  the 
gray  eyes  elevated  his  chin  and  smiled. 

"What  then,  my  little  one?"  he  called. 

"  I  have  come  down  the  wharf,  —  alone,  —  me ! 
—  all  the  way!  "  chirped  the  voice. 

A  look  of  alarm  came  over  the  face  of  Jacques. 


14-  DIANA    VICTEIX 

"And  mammie,  where,  then,  is  she?" 

"She  sleeps!    her   mouth    is   open   wide,    like 
this ! "     A  gesture   evidently  accompanied  these 
words.      "It   was    too    tiresome   for    Jeanne,  - 
Jeanne  is  here." 

"Jeanne  is  naughty!  "  said  the  boy.  "If  she 
had  fallen  over  the  edge  of  the  wharf !  She  must 
stay  still  till  Jacques  comes." 

"Jeanne  is  not  naughty!"  said  the  voice  em- 
phatically. "Does  she  not  lie  even  now  on  her 
stomach  in  the  middle  of  the  wharf,  and  the  edges 
are  far  away?" 

"I  shall  tell  maman,  and  she  will  spank  you!  " 
said  Jocelin  sententiously. 

"No,  you  will  not  tell  maman,  and  she  will 
not  spank  her!"  This  time  Jacques'  eyebrows 
were  admonitory ;  then  he  smiled  pleasantly  and 
advanced  towards  Jocelin.  "And  mean  while, 
Jojo,  mon  frere,  as  it  is  necessary  that  I  should 
mount  and  put  on  my  clothes,  I  shall  be  obliged 
to  climb  over  you." 

He  grasped  the  sides  of  the  ladder,  and,  put- 
ting his  foot  on  the  first  step,  raised  himself  face 
to  face  with  the  singer  and  paused  ;  something 
in  Jocelin 's  acquiescent  expression  made  him  add 
before  he  climbed  farther :  "  And  if  you  bite  me 
I  shall  assuredly  kick  some  of  your  teeth  down 
your  throat!  " 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  have  your  distasteful  flesh  in 
my  mouth ! "  sneered  Jocelin,  perjuring  himself, 


PRELUDE  -  15 

but  obtaining  the  last  word.  And  the  ascent  was 
accomplished  without  accident. 

In  two  minutes  the  bath-house  door  slammed 
and  Jacques  came  out  on  the  wharf.  Jeanne 
was  lying  there  patiently,  poking  her  fingers  into 
the  cracks  between  the  planks.  He  stooped 
down  and  lifted  her  up  into  his  arms  easily,  for 
he  was  twelve  years  old  and  strong  for  his  age. 

"Look,  then,  at  thy  Jacques,  thou  mischief!" 
he  said,  and  she  looked,  and  put  her  arms  around 
his  neck  and  kissed  him  lightly  on  the  nose. 

The  yellowest  yellow  hair  had  Jeanne,  and  the 
brownest  brown  eyes;  there  was  a  dimple  in  her 
chin,  and  her  nose  was  tip-tilted.  The  paternal 
feature  had  been  entirely  expended  upon  Jocelin, 
and  there  was  no  choice  left  for  Jeanne;  she  was 
obliged  to  derive  her  nose  from  her  mother's  side 
of  the  house,  —  such  a  pretty  nose !  Her  cheeks 
were  pink  and  plump,  not  brown  and  lean  like 
Jocelin 's.  A  very  puff-ball  of  a  baby,  light  as 
a  fluff  of  down. 

"And  if  Jeanne  had  fallen  down,  alone  on  the 
wharf,  and  no  Jacques  near  to  kiss  the  bobo?" 
said  the  boy. 

"There  are  more  times  than  one  that  Jacques 
is  not  near  to  kiss  the  bobo,"  returned  Jeanne 
meditatively. 

Jacques  rubbed  his  hard  young  cheek  against 
her  downy  pink  one  and  laughed,  and  walked 
down  the  wharf  carrying  her. 


16  DIANA    VICTRIX 

"But  Jacques  will  be  always  near  hereafter," 
he  said  presently,  struck  with  a  sudden  thought : 
"Jacques  is  to  be  thy  brother,  mignonne;  tell 
him  if  thou  art  not  glad? " 

"But  no!  "  said  the  baby,  "Jocelin  is  my  bro- 
ther. Not  more  brother! " 

"And  Jacques  also!  "  returned  the  boy. 
"Why  not  Jacques,  bebe?" 

Her  lips  quivered,  and  she  flung  out  one  little 
arm  passionately.  "Jacques  said,  '  Jacques  is 
little  husband,  Jeanne  is  little  wife.'  Jocelin  is 
my  brother ;  is  not  one  enough  ?  Jacques  is  not 
my  brother !  Jacques  is  Jacques !  Not  brother ! 
Not  a  brother !  Brother  naughty,  —  not  Jacques 
naughty! " 

He  laughed  at  her  distress  and  attempted  to 
explain.  "It  is  a  thing  that  is  unavoidable,  my 
little  one.  Listen !  It  is  not  I  who  do  this,  it  is 
my  father.  If  he  will  marry  thy  mother,  what 
can  I  do  ?  —  the  thing  is  established  by  law.  But 
what  do  I  say  to  thee  ?  Thou  canst  not  compre- 
hend,—  eh,  little  sister?" 

She  was  in  truth  sadly  bewildered;  her  brow 
was  puckered,  and  the  tears  were  gathering  in 
her  brown,  brown  eyes.  "Little  sister  and  little 
wife  also? "  she  said  imploringly  as  the  tear- 
drops fell. 

Jacques'  own  idea  of  the  limits  and  possibili- 
ties of  this  new  relationship  was  hazy,  and  his 
propensity  to  tease  was  strong. 


PRELUDE  17 

"I  fear  it  would  not  be  considered  comme  il 
faut,"  he  replied  with  exaggerated  gravity.  "It 
might  be  possible  if  you  had  a  dispensation  from 
the  Pope,  but  —  well  —  you  know  the  Pope ! 
Such  things  are  not  obtained  every  day.  For 
me,  I  am  not  hopeful." 

This  harangue  was  all  Greek  to  the  baby,  but 
she  understood  that  her  desire  was  refused,  and 
she  opened  her  mouth  and  howled. 

Jacques  trudged  along  steadily,  and  allowed 
her  to  howl. 

"But  if  it  can't  be  helped,  why  should  you 
cry?"  he  said  presently  in  an  argumentative  tone 
which  was  entirely  thrown  away  upon  his  little 
comrade,  who  had  lost  sight  of  her  grief  through 
her  tears  and  was  crying  from  pure  momentum. 

They  had  reached  the  end  of  the  wharf.  Far- 
ther down  on  the  beach  lay  mammie  asleep  with 
her  head  propped  on  a  log.  The  little  wind  that 
comes  before  a  storm  had  arrived  suddenly,  and 
was  blowing  Jeanne's  yellow  curls;  it  brought 
with  it  Jocelin's  voice  from  the  bath-house,  where 
he  was  singing  again.  A  look  of  amazement 
came  over  the  face  of  Jacques  as  he  listened. 

"Thy  brother  is  a  crocodile!"  he  said  to 
Jeanne;  "he  sheds  tears  for  grief,  but  he  was 
not  sorrowful  —  no !  —  hear  him  sing !  He  does 
not  care.  He  has  no  bowels  within  him;  he  is 
nothing  but  voice."  He  threw  his  head  back, 
and  his  chin  was  very  square.  He  spoke  to  him- 
self this  time :  — 


18  DIANA    VICTEIX 

"I  did  not  shed  one  tear  yet,  — no!  Oh,  my 
father !  you  and  I,  —  we  were  sufficient ;  why 
not?  That  Jocelin!  That  snipe!  I  would  wish 
to  punch  his  head !  But  if  he  had  my  lump  in 
his  throat  he  could  not  sing,  —  no!  " 

The  baby's  wail,  which  had  died  to  a  whimper, 
was  beginning  to  reassume  its  crescendo-forte 
proportions,  but  Jacques  turned  and  cried :  — 

"Tr-r-r-oum,  bourn,  bourn,  it  is  fate !  "  in  a  tre- 
mendous voice,  with  a  terrifying  Mephistophelian 
depression  of  his  expressive  brows,  like  the  man 
in  the  play,  and  she  stopped,  reduced  to  silence 
through  intellectual  bewilderment.  She  contin- 
ued to  stare  at  him  in  a  dazed,  baby  fashion  as 
they  walked,  and  he  laughed  at  her  blank  little 
countenance;  and  then  the  raindrops  began  to 
come  down,  and  he  ran  to  the  house. 

Jocelin,  who  would  have  been  quite  safe  if  he 
had  remained  under  the  bath-house,  came  home 
instead  and  was  very  wet,  and  was  put  to  bed, 
because  that  was  the  third  pair  of  cottonade 
trousers  he  had  spoiled  that  day. 

"Jocelin  is  thy  little  brother;  I  am  thy  big 
brother,"  said  Jacques,  as  he  sat  on  the  gallery 
floor  amusing  the  baby ;  but  she  shook  her  head 
solemnly  and  said,  "Jacques  not  say  that!  makes 
Jeanne  a  bobo  in  her  stomach." 

And  when  the  wedding  day  came,  no  one  could 
understand  why  the  little  .Jeanne,  who  was  usually 
so  well-behaved  and  self-possessed,  cried  very 


PE ELUDE  19 

loud  in  the  middle  of  the  ceremony  for  two  min- 
utes. Nobody  knew  but  Jacques,  who  was  sup- 
porting her  on  the  back  of  the  pew,  and  said 
softly,  inspired  by  a  spirit  of  mischief :  — 

"Now  thou  art  little  sister!  It  is  accom- 
plished!" 

And  Jocelin  sang  a  solo  in  the  organ  loft  like 
an  angel. 


BOOK   I 

SPINSTERS  ALL  AND  BACHELORS  MERRY 

"  What  shall  arrive  with  the  cycle's  change  ? 
A  novel  grace  and  a  beauty  strange. 
I  will  make  an  Eve,  be  the  artist  that  began  her, 
Shaped  her  to  his  mind !  " 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


CHAPTER  I 

A    FAMILY   COUNCIL 

MONSIEUR  DUMAKAIS  sat  in  his  armchair  by 
the  window,  his  hands  clasped  tensely  before  him, 
his  sensitive,  clear-cut  face  gray  with  suppressed 
emotion,  and  rigidly  blank.  He  had  not,  as  yet, 
spoken  in  the  discussion;  he  had  kept  the  words 
back  between  his  thin  lips  and  his  clenched  teeth, 
—  they  were  hard  words  of  rebellion. 

There  was  just  now  a  lull  in  the  conversation. 
Jacques  had  pushed  his  chair  away  from  the 
breakfast-table  and  sunk  himself  into  it,  his  hands 
in  his  trousers'  pockets,  his  head  thrust  down 
between  his  shoulders.  He  was  thinking  the 
matter  over  intently.  Jocelin,  long,  thin,  and 
languid,  flicked  bread-crumbs  across  the  table- 
cloth with  sullen  indifference.  He  had  the  air  of 
one  who  knows  himself  a  culprit,  this  Jocelin, 
but  persists  in  demanding  sympathy.  Madame 
Dumarais  held  the  letter  in  her  fat  hands  close 
to  her  fat  chins  and  read  it  over  her  spectacles. 
Behind  her  stood  Jeanne,  impatiently  twisting 
from  one  foot  to  the  other. 

All  these  things  Monsieur  Dumarais  could  not 
see,  but  he  could  feel  them,  — he  was  blind. 


24  DIANA    VICTRIX 

Jacques  slid  up  into  the  seat  of  his  chair  and 
turned  to  his  father. 

"  Eh  bien,  mon  pere,  what  is  it  that  3^011  have 
to  advise  in  the  matter?  We  have  not  heard 
your  voice  as  yet." 

Then  Monsieur  Dumarais  spoke,  and  his  words 
were  a  torrent. 

"What  should  I  say?  What  should  I  advise? 
Am  I  anything,  that  I  should  speak?  To  sit 
here  day  after  day  eating  the  bread  of  idleness 
is  not  bitterness  enough,  but  I  must  also  be 
mocked  with  authority !  My  son  asks  permission 
to  put  bread  into  my  mouth.  This  is  what  it  is 
to  be  a  man!  Were  I  a  woman,  I  should  knit;  I 
might  at  least  be  able  to  deceive  myself  into 
thinking  that  I  was  not  wholly  useless  and  de- 
pendent. To  sit  in  the  dark  and  listen  to  the 
makeshifts  which  are  devised  to  keep  the  wolf 
from  the  door!  To  remember  that  when  these 
eyes  could  guide  these  hands,  there  was  no  advice 
in  this  house,  —  there  was  my  will !  There  was 
then  no  one  who  insulted  us  for  charity's  sake! :' 

He  paused,  shaking  in  his  chair,  with  beads 
of  perspiration  standing  out  on  his  ghastly  fore- 
head. Madame  cast  up  her  eyes,  her  hands,  her 
shoulders,  silently,  in  resigned,  apologetic  pity. 
Jeanne's  eyes  widened  with  fright,  and  sought 
Jacques'  steady,  clean  -  shaven  face  with  the 
square,  determined  chin. 

"It  is  not  an  insult,  my  father,''  said  Jacques; 


A  FAMILY  COUNCIL  25 

"it  is  simply  this  friend  of  Jeanne  who  visited 
the  Chesters  last  winter  and  spent  an  evening 
here,  you  will  remember.  She  had  a  voice  like 
a  poll-parrot,  but  that  is  not  visible  in  her  letter. 
Of  course  it  is  quite  clear  that  she  wants  her 
friends  to  stay  here,  but  that  appeals  to  me  in 
the  light  of  a  compliment  rather  than  an  insult, 
—  you  will  appreciate  my  unbounded  conceit,  my 
father!" 

Jacques  smiled  jocosely,  and  the  situation 
seemed  to  grow  less  tense. 

"And,  moreover,  she  is  most  delicate  in  her 
miinuer  of  not  saying  so.  These  things  are  done 
every  day  now.  I  can  see  that  it  will  be  a  relief 
to  her  if  we  take  them.  She  asks  if  we  can  sug- 
gest any  French  family  who  would  be  willing  to 
receive  them;  and  she  adds  that  she  would  be 
glad  to  feel  they  were  coming  to  us,  but  she  feels 
that  is  not  to  be  thought  of.  It  is  a  most  courte- 
ous letter.  She  was  not  to  me  an  interesting 
woman,  and  no  doubt  her  friends  are  stiff,  North- 
ern old  maids  with  cranks ;  but  it  is  a  most  cour- 
teous letter,  notwithstanding.  You  know,  my 
father,  that  we  have  not  yet  come  to  want,  and 
it  is  my  joy  and  privilege  to  provide  for  you  and 
111:1111:111  and  Jeanne;  but  I  thought,  as  so  much 
expense  had  been  incurred  unavoidably  of  late,"  — 
Jocelin's  hand  shook  as  he  flicked  his  crumbs,  — 
"that  it  would  make  maman  happier  if  she  had 
this  money  all  her  own  in  addition.  But  if  you 


26  DIANA   VICTRIX 

prefer  that  it  should  not  be  so,  we  will  not  speak 
of  it  again." 

"It  is  now  two  years  that  the  Bonets  have  had 
a  boarder,  and  Monsieur  Bonet  in  good  health 
and  having  also  a  fine  situation  in  that  rice-mill. 
No  one  considers  such  things  these  days,"  ob- 
served Madame  Dumarais  in  a  tone  of  self -justi- 
fication. "And  the  Martineaus,  three  boarders 
this  year,  one  of  them  a  child,  —  but  I  would  not 
take  a  child,  no !  And  those  girls  go  everywhere, 
and  who  remarks  ?  And  the  Barbiers !  Who  is 
it  that  stands  better  in  the  city  than  the  Barbiers  ? 
He  was  a  friend  of  your  papa,  Jocelin,  Monsieur 
Barbier.  It  was  only  last  week  Madame  Bar- 
bier  said  to  me,  'We  like  it,  these  quiet  times;  it 
makes  the  house  a  little  gay. ' ' 

Madame  Dumarais  was  beginning  to  feel  that 
every  respectable  family  ought  to  possess  at  least 
one  boarder. 

"I  do  not  anticipate  that  they  will  be  gay, 
these  women,"  said  Jacques  sarcastically. 
"Noisy,  doubtless,  with  that  disagreeable,  hard 
voice  of  the  North.  But  as  for  gayety!  these 
Northerners  do  not  understand  how  to  enjoy  them- 
selves ;  that  is  an  established  fact.  Ours  will  be 
old  maids,  mournful  and  cranky,  drinking  a 
great  deal  of  tea,  and  shocked  at  the  sight  of  the 
claret  on  the  table." 

"Grand  Dieu,  seigneur!"  exclaimed  Jocelin, 
"and  are  we  then  to  keep  the  claret  off  the  table?  " 


A  FAMILY  COUNCIL  27 

Madame  Dumarais  and  Jeanne  looked  help- 
lessly at  Jacques,  who  replied  emphatically :  — 

"Je  dis  non!  they  have  come  to  see  a  French 
family.  Let  them  see,  let  them  learn !  We  live 
as  we  have  always  lived." 

Madame  turned  the  letter  irresolutely  in  her 
pudgy  fingers  and  glanced  at  her  husband,  who 
was  calm  now,  but  looked  discouraged  and  weary. 

"  Only  for  a  little  frolic  we  will  take  them  this 
winter,"  faltered  madame.  "It  will  not  be  for 
always ;  we  have  enough  without.  But  it  will  be 
cheerful  for  Jacques  and  Jocelin  with  two  young 
ladies  in  the  house.  It  will  be  an  education  for 
Jeanne;  her  English  is  not  what  it  should  be." 

Jacques  laughed,  and  madame  blushed  and 
smiled  apologetically. 

"Then  it  is  decided!"  cried  Jeanne  with  a 
little  skip,  and  Jacques  arose  and  went  over  to 
his  father's  chair. 

"You  will  allow  maman  the  pleasure  of  this 
little  frolic,  mon  pere,"  he  said  caressingly;  "you 
will  allow  Jeanne  to  do  this  kindness  for  her 
friend  who  has  written  the  charming  letter? 
These  people  who  are  coming  are  desirous  of 
dwelling  in  a  family,  not  a  boarding-house.  You 
will  allow  us  to  gratify  them?  If  Jeanne  and 
maman  were  to  go  away  for  their  health,  would 
not  you  be  the  first  to  demand  that  they  should 
live  with  people  who  could  be  their  friends  and 
could  chaperon  them?" 


28  DIANA    VICTEIX 

Monsieur  Dumarais  lifted  his  face  towards  the 
voice  of  Jacques :  — 

"I  am  a  proud  old  man,  my  son,"  he  said: 
"proud,  and  sensitive,  and  unreasonable.  Mon 
Dieu!  what  can  you  expect  at  my  age?  Do  as 
you  think  best.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  refuse  to 
shelter  two  harmless  women.  It  will  also  be  a 
relief  to  your  mother  at  times  to  have  money 
of  her  own  to  spend  on  little  extravagancies  for 
which  she  need  be  accountable  to  no  one." 

And  from  this  it  might  be  inferred  that  Mon- 
sieur Dumarais,  although  blind,  had  as  keen  an 
insight  into  the  situation  as  any  one  present. 
Madame  and  Jocelin  grew  red,  and  avoided  each 
other's  eyes. 

"Go,  Jeanne,  and  write  the  letter,"  said 
Jacques,  smiling.  "Tell  thy  friend  the  poll- 
parrot  that  her  old  maids  may  come  here,  and  we 
shall  do  our  best  to  make  the  winter  agreeable. 
Go,  then!  I  will  take  it  with  me  to  the  post." 

"Me!"  exclaimed  Jeanne  with  a  gasp  of  ter- 
ror; "but  I  can  never  do  that!  A  letter  in 
English !  Oh,  Jacques !  Why  not  maman  ?  Or 
thou,  Jacques,  thou?  Thou  art  so  fluent  with 
the  English,  writing  letters  all  day  long." 

"Ah,  bah!  "  said  Jacques.  "And  is  it  to  me, 
this  letter,  this  request?  And  thou,  having  been 
for  two  years  at  an  English  school,  —  thou  canst 
not  write  a  letter?" 

"But,  Jacques,   yes!    a  school  letter.     Never 


A  FAMILY   COUNCIL  29 

to  a  real  person,  and  this  thought  makes  me 
afraid." 

Jeanne's  face  was  a  picture  of  childish  dis- 
tress ;  she  was  most  unhappy.  So  Jacques  made 
a  great  noise  in  pulling  forward  a  little  table  and 
storming  about  for  ink  and  a  pen.  And  where 
was  Jeanne's  best  paper,  with  her  monogram 
upon  it,  which  he  gave  her  on  her  last  birthday? 
For  what  was  it  intended  if  not  for  such  a  mo- 
ment as  this  ?  And  finally  he  had  seated  Jeanne 
at  the  little  table,  and  she  was  writing,  at  his  dic- 
tation, while  her  heart  fluttered,  a  letter  which 
appeared  to  her  to  be  a  miracle  of  English.  For 
he  was  a  man  of  affairs,  this  marvelous  Jacques, 
and  one  must  speak  much  that  is  not  French  if 
one  would  be  successful  on  the  Cotton  Exchange, 
even  in  New  Orleans.  And  Jacques  was  success- 
ful. 

"  Was  there  any  arrangement  about  the  amount 
of  board?"  asked  Jocelin  in  a  low  tone,  pausing 
beside  his  mother  as  he  sauntered  out  of  the 
room. 

"Not  yet,"  she  answered,  and  glanced  appre- 
hensively at  the  blind  man  by  the  window. 


CHAPTER   II 
JACQUES'  OWN  WAY 

JACQUES  had  always  been  able  to  do  the  thing 
he  wished  to  do,  and  he  was  now  twenty-eight 
years  old.  One's  habits  are  beginning  to  toughen 
and  take  root  at  that  age.  Moreover,  it  is  a  long 
time  to  be  allowed  to  have  one's  own  way, — 
twenty-eight  years. 

If  you  had  intimated  to  Jacques  that  he  always 
did  as  he  pleased,  he  would  have  laughed  good- 
naturedly,  and  told  you  that  you  were  confusing 
him  with  Jocelin.  But  it  was  not  true  that  Joce- 
lin  always  had  his  own  way,  and  no  one  knew 
this  better  than  Jocelin  himself.  It  was  because 
the  desires  that  he  was  able  to  satisfy  were  so 
often  satisfied  at  the  expense  of  the  feelings  of 
other  people  that  he  had  acquired  a  reputation 
for  self-indulgence,  but  there  were  other  desires 
which  remained  unsatisfied  —  at  the  expense  of 
his  own  feelings. 

Jacques'  world  was  all  one  color.  Having 
always  had  his  own  way,  he  was  entirely  uncon- 
scious of  the  fact.  There  had  been  no  change  in 
his  life  to  thrust  it  upon  him,  and  the  only  other 


JACQUES'    OWN    WAY  31 

way  of  becoming  aware  of  it  —  that  of  observing 
the  play  of  such  contrast  in  the  lives  of  others 
—  was  not  his  way ;  his  own  affairs  kept  him  suffi- 
ciently occupied.  Whether  or  not  he  possessed 
the  grace  of  sacrificing  his  desires  to  those  of 
other  people  is  at  present  beside  the  question ;  no 
such  sacrifice  had  hitherto  been  required  of  him, 
because  all  that  he  had  ever  wished  to  do  had 
been  so  entirely  the  outcome  of  rigid  common 
sense,  so  unquestionably  healthful  and  beneficial 
for  those  over  whom  he  had  exercised  authority, 
that,  even  if  they  wanted  to  do  otherwise,  they 
were  ashamed  to  say  so.  And  almost  always 
when,  as  sometimes  happened  with  Jocelin,  they 
did  otherwise  without  saying  anything  about  it, 
they  came  to  grief. 

To  some  people  responsibility  is  as  the  breath 
of  life,  and  this  was  true  of  Jacques.  There 
were  times  when,  on  being  joked  by  his  friends 
about  his  latest  fancy,  he  would  look  grave  almost 
to  sadness  and  reply :  — 

"  Ah !  but  you  know  it  would  be  impossible  for 
me,  in  my  present  position,  to  marry;  I  could 
not  afford  the  expense  of  another  family." 

And  at  such  moments  he  thought  it  mattered 
a  great  deal  to  him,  —  this  virtuous  abstention 
from  matrimony,  — but  it  didn't. 

Jacques  had  been  at  the  head  of  his  family 
ever  since  he  was  sixteen,  when  his  father  began 
to  lose  his  eyesight;  but  he  had  controlled  his 


32  DIANA    VICTRIX 

own  affairs  for  a  much  longer  period,  and  he  had 
them  under  excellent  control. 

Monsieur  Dumarais  —  before  his  blindness  an 
excellent  accountant  on  a  large  salary  —  had 
spent  two  thirds  of  his  waking  hours  at  his  desk, 
and  the  remaining  third  in  reading  his  Paris 
journals  and  keeping  himself  thoroughly  in  touch 
with  the  best  French  literature  of  the  day;  so 
that  his  young  son,  motherless  from  the  age  of 
three,  had  ample  opportunity  for  developing  the 
energetic  obstinacy,  and  the  talent  for  decisive, 
practical  action,  which  were  to  distinguish  him 
in  later  life. 

He  was  a  bookworm,  Monsieur  Dumarais.  As 
he  leaned  against  his  office-desk,  there  was  always 
a  paper-covered  book  bulging  out  of  his  pocket. 
When  he  went  to  and  from  his  day's  work,  he 
held  the  book  in  his  hand  with  his  forefinger  be- 
tween the  leaves,  and  on  certain  quiet  blocks  he 
read  as  he  walked.  In  summer  he  irresolutely 
stopped  to  rest  in  the  large  square  near  his  house, 
and  here  some  of  the  children  usually  lay  in  wait 
to  decoy  him  home,  —  after  the  second  Madame 
Dumarais,  having  endured  the  ruin  of  several 
good  dinners,  had  been  instructed  in  his  habits 
by  Jacques.  He  pursued  a  swift,  never-ending 
journey  from  literature  to  ledgers  and  back  again, 
and  one  day,  somewhere  midway  in  this  race 
from  desire  to  necessity,  his  weary  eyes  lagged 
behind  his  persistent  spirit,  —  lagged  farther  and 


JACQUES*    OWN   WAY  33 

farther,  day  by  day,  —  until  finally  they  never 
caught  up  any  more. 

Monsieur  Dumarais  was  very  bitter. 

"If  I  had  known  that  this  was  to  happen, 
I  would  never  have  married  again,"  he  said 
to  Jacques.  He  said  it  again  and  again  as 
the  years  passed;  it  seemed  to  be  the  only  atone- 
ment he  could  make ;  but  it  embarrassed  Jacques, 
who  was  wont  to  say,  "Ah,  bah!  "  gruffly,  and 
change  the  subject. 

Just  what  had  been  monsieur's  motive  in  mak- 
ing this  second  marriage  was  never  quite  clearly 
defined.  There  were  those  on  the  lake  shore,  that 
summer  when  he  made  his  declaration,  who  in- 
sisted that  madame  had  set  her  cap  for  him  most 
shamefully,  —  fat,  sentimental  madame.  There 
were  others,  more  charitable,  who  said  that  he  had 
taken  a  wife  for  the  sake  of  his  little  son ;  and 
these  usually  predicted  trouble,  affirming  that 
the  boy  was  an  independent  fellow,  and  had  been 
left  to  his  own  devices  too  long  to  be  made  amena- 
ble to  petticoat  government  at  this  late  date. 

But  the  predictions  of  trouble  were  not  veri- 
fied. The  relations  between  Jacques  and  his 
step-mother  were  marked  from  the  first  by  peace 
and  good-nature.  Madame  Dumarais  was  not 
one  to  make  trouble.  Nothing  could  have  in- 
duced her  to  interfere  with  the  inclinations  for 
good  or  evil  of  even  the  most  helpless  infant  in 
arms,  much  less  the  determined  will  of  a  vigor- 


34  DIANA    VICTEIX 

ous  twelve-year-old  boy  like  Jacques.  Madame's 
most  positive  emotion  was  timidity.  There  was 
nothing  in  life  of  which  she  was  not  just  a  little 
afraid,  —  no  situation  before  which  she  did  not 
quail.  Little  noises  made  her  white  or  pink; 
little  alarms  deprived  her  of  the  power  of  speech. 
She  was  afflicted  with  a  chronic  faint-hearted- 
ness,  and  every  flutter  of  her  mind  was  made 
manifest  to  the  public  eye  through  the  fatty 
vibrations  of  her  body.  And  yet  a  physician 
would  have  been  reluctant  to  label  this  state  as 
nerves,  — madame's  was  a  simple  organism,  akin 
to  that  of  the  jelly-fish. 

When  she  married  Monsieur  Dumarais  she 
kissed  Jacques  on  both  cheeks,  —  large,  sprawly 
kisses  with  a  great  deal  of  loose  sound  about 
them, —  and  then  she  smiled  a  frightened,  depre- 
catory smile  down  into  his  unsentimental  gray 
eyes.  It  was  a  part  of  the  ceremony,  and  he 
expected  it.  If  his  eyes  were  alert  and  keen,  it 
was  mere  habit,  and  not  because  he  was  studying 
her.  He  had  finished  studying  her  some  time  be- 
fore. He  knew  she  was  frightened,  and  he  had 
expected  that,  too.  He  was  very  well  acquainted 
with  this  step-mother. 

"She  will  mend  my  clothes,"  he  reasoned 
within  himself,  "and  the  clothes  of  my  father 
and  Jocelin  and  Jeanne.  That  will  be  pleasant. 
But  she  will  never  say  No.  Why?  She  is 
afraid,  but  it  is  not  all  fear.  She  is  very  soft." 


JACQUES'   OWN    WAY  35 

Farther  than  this,  Jacques'  metaphysical  specu- 
lations did  not  lead  him,  but  this  was  far  enough 
for  all  practical  emergencies.  So  he  continued 
to  make  changes  in  his  winter  and  summer  under- 
clothing at  what  seasons  suited  him  best,  after 
his  father's  marriage,  as  he  had  done  before.  He 
bathed  as  many  times  a  day  in  summer,  and 
studied  as  many  lessons  in  winter,  as  he  chose, 
and  in  both  cases  his  choice  was  up  to  the  maxi- 
mum limit.  He  went  to  the  American  Univer- 
sity rather  than  the  Jesuits'  College,  because  he 
wished  to,  and,  having  started  in  the  preparatory 
department,  his  English  became  as  accurate  as 
that  of  his  school-fellows,  which  is  not  saying 
much  for  it,  after  all.  He  studied  from  love  of 
conquest,  from  necessity  of  dominating  whatever 
he  attacked,  and  because 'he  was  overflowing  with 
energy. 

Energy  is  not  usually  considered  a  Creole  trait, 
but  Monsieur  Dumarais,  although  a  boy  when  he 
came  to  America,  was  a  Parisian  of  the  Parisians ; 
and  young  Jacques,  being,  as  it  were,  the  first 
stop-cock  from  the  source  of  supply,  set  free  a 
flow  of  energetic  power  more  than  sufficient  in 
force  and  volume  to  run  three  step-families  of 
the  size  of  the  one  already  in  its  way.  Fortu- 
nate Jacques !  to  be  in  at  the  beginning,  where 
one  tingled  with  the  rush  and  the  shock  of  the 
tearing  stream.  Farther  away,  in  the  days  of 
the  third  and  fourth  generations,  perhaps  the 


36  DIANA   VICTBIX 

stream  might  only  percolate.  Jocelin,  for  exam- 
ple, was  a  third  or  fourth  generation.  He  felt 
no  rush  and  tug  of  energy, —  no !  as  the  slow  drops 
percolated  they  tickled  him,  and  he  liked  being 
tickled ;  he  only  lay  the  stiller  to  catch  the  sensa- 
tion. But  Jacques  never  stayed  still.  He  was 
a  noisy  boy.  He  had  a  big  Ha-ha! — just  two 
great  laughs  that  clapped  against  each  other  and 
set  in  motion  the  smaller  laughters  of  everybody 
else  who  chanced  to  be  near.  When  he  came  in 
from  school,  he  banged  his  books  down,  and 
shouted  out  the  events  of  the  day  with  a  radiant 
enjoyment  that  was  infectious ;  and  when  he  left 
school  and  went  to  work,  he  continued  to  behave 
in  the  same  effervescent  manner,  transforming 
the  dinner-table  into  an  impromptu  cotton  ex- 
change by  the  very  atmosphere  which  he  brought 
to  it. 

The  summer  that  he  was  sixteen  he  worked  in 
a  cotton-broker's  office  as  under-clerk  and  errand- 
boy.  Because  he  wanted  to,  of  course. 

"But  to  seek  work  when  one  has  a  vacation, 
and  moreover  when  the  weather  is  hot!"  said 
Jocelin,  eying  him  with  a  look  of  troubled 
aversion. 

"Why  not?  "  said  Jacques.  He  had  no  capa- 
city for  lolling  around  the  house,  smoking  cigar- 
ettes and  strumming  the  piano ;  he  was  not  lan- 
guid, and  too  tall  for  his  age,  and  too  thin,  like 
Jocelin.  He  was  compactly  built,  quick  in  his 


JACQUES1   OWN   WAY  37 

motions  as  in  his  speech,  actively  alive.  He 
enjoyed  the  Cotton  Exchange  with  a  healthy,  un- 
moral ardor;  it  was  a  place  of  action,  and  action 
was  life  to  him. 

And  then,  in  the  middle  of  the  summer,  his 
father  had  a  fright  with  his  eyes,  and  there  was 
a  lightning  flash  in  Jacques'  quick  mind  which 
left  him  quivering  with  an  excitement  that  was 
half  joy,  half  fear.  He  had  a  sudden  luminous 
foreboding  of  the  responsibility  to  come,  and  it 
made  him  keen  to  test  his  strength,  and  fright- 
ened with  a  terror  that  is  courage.  It  was  never 
Jacques'  way  to  discuss  his  motives,  to  enter 
into  long  and  satisfactory  explanations  for  doing 
things;  and  when  he  announced  in  the  autumn 
that  he  was  not  going  back  to  the  University,  it 
was  an  announcement  pure  and  simple. 

His  step-mother  cried,  "  But,  Jacques !"  and 
looked  helpless,  and  his  father  turned  slowly 
white  and  said,  "Why  is  this,  my  son?  "  —  said  it 
as  if  he  were  afraid  of  the  answer.  Monsieur 
Dumarais  had  had  another  fright  about  his  eyes. 

The  answer  was  not  alarming.  Jacques  in- 
tended to  be  a  business  man,  and  he  had  gotten 
a  good  foothold  in  his  present  position.  The  firm 
liked  him;  he  was  popular  with  the  men  around 
the  Exchange ;  there  was  a  chance  of  making  his 
way  upward,  and  such  chances  were  not  found 
every  day.  He  could  not  see  how  two  more 
years  at  the  University  would  help  him  to  be  a 


38  DIANA    VICTRIX 

better  cotton  man.  In  short,  he  wanted  to  do  it. 
Why  not?  And  Monsieur  Dumarais,  with  that 
sick  fear  cold  within  him,  dared  not  bring  forth 
his  valid,  intellectual  arguments  against  the 
brisk  "Why  not?"  lest  he  should  discover  that 
Jacques  had  other  reasons  at  his  command. 
*  That  was  twelve  years  ago,  and  to-day  Jacques 
was  a  man  on  'Change,  with  an  interest  in  the 
profits  of  the  firm.  He  was  the  clever  man  of 
the  firm,  and  they  did  not  want  to  do  without 
him;  so  they  gave  him  an  interest  to  keep  him 
quiet.  He  was  worth  more  than  they  gave,  and 
he  knew  it;  but  being  unable,  through  lack  of 
money,  to  go  into  business  for  himself,  he  was, 
as  he  darkly  expressed  it  to  Jeanne,  lying  in  wait 
for  a  capitalist.  And  little  Jeanne  laughed  with 
delight,  partly  because  she  thought,  from  Jacques' 
eyes,  that  it  was  a  joke,  and  any  joke  of  his  must 
of  course  be  more  enjoyable  than  the  jokes  of 
other  people ;  but  chiefly  she  laughed  because  his 
mocking  eyes  were  looking  into  her  own,  and  the 
words  were  said  to  her  in  a  whisper  of  ironic  con- 
fidence; to  her,  —  to  her !  Reason  enough,  surely, 
for  the  joy  in  her  heart  that  sent  that  pretty 
laugh  to  her  lips !  But  nobody  knew  less  about 
her  heart  and  its  whys  and  wherefores  than 
Jeanne. 

Jacques'  other  relatives  were  more  or  less  pas- 
sive in  their  submission  to  his  will,  but  Jeanne 
demanded  to  be  ruled.  It  was  an  active  pleasure 


JACQUES'  OWN   WAY  39 

to  her  to  obey  Jacques,  and,  even  though  she  did 
his  behests  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  there  was 
contentment  in  her  soul.  To  do  the  thing  that 
Jacques  wished  her  to  do !  truly  what  higher  aim 
could  one  desire  in  life  ?  When  he  spoke  to  her 
the  brown  eyes,  turned  wide  to  him,  seemed  seek- 
ing—  what?  Jeanne?  But  she  did  not  know  how 
to  ask  herself  questions.  And  Jacques?  —  did 
he  ask  himself  any? 

Jacques'  will,  to  those  who  loved  it,  was,  on 
the  whole,  a  pleasant  one.  It  took  Jeanne  away 
from  the  French  Roman  Catholic  school  when  she 
was  fifteen,  and  sent  her  up  town  across  Canal 
Street  to  an  English  private  school,  where,  if  she 
did  not  learn  much  from  her  books,  her  shy, 
pretty  manners  gained  a  certain  polish  which 
made  their  very  shyness  more  fascinating,  and 
contact  with  American  girls  gave  her  confidence, 
if  not  accuracy,  in  speaking  English.  Jacques' 
will  also  kept  her  from  making  her  debut  into 
society  as  early  as  Madame  Dumarais  had  taken 
it  for  granted  that  she  should. 

"He  has  some  curious  ideas,  your  brother. 
He  becomes  more  and  more  American."  And 
madame  was  not  quite  clear  in  her  mind  as  to 
whether  she  meant  to  express  disapproval  or  the 
contrary  by  this  remark.  It  never  occurred  to 
her,  however,  to  rebel  against  the  "curious  ideas," 
although  —  and  this  may  seem  paradoxical  — 
madame  was  less  afraid  of  this  noisy,  efficient 


40  DIANA   VICTRIX 

step-son  than  of  any  other  member  of  her  fam- 

%• 

Jeanne  did  not  care  about  the  debut,  at  least 
not  much.  The  clothes  of  course  would  be  enter- 
taining, but  Jacques  thought  nineteen  was  young 
enough  for  a  debutante,  and  naturally,  if  Jacques 
thought  so,  you  know !  —  This  was  a  year  ago. 
Jeanne  was  nineteen  now  and  winter  had  arrived, 
and  doubtless  she  would  be  allowed  to  go  to  all 
the  balls;  for  the  two  old  maids  were  coming, 
and  Jacques  had  said  in  the  letter  that  they  were 
to  have  a  pleasant  time.  Jeanne  had  never  been 
to  a  ball;  that  was  another  of  Jacques'  ideas:  he 
said  balls  were  not  a  place  for  children,  even 
if  the  children  wore  high-necked  white  muslins 
and  sat  all  the  evening  in  a  loge  grillee.  But 
occasionally  she  had  misgivings  about  these 
Northern  women. 

"Dost  thou  think,  Jacques,  that,  being  old 
maids,  they  will  have  a  desire  to  go  to  balls?" 
she  questioned  doubtfully. 

"They  will  adore  balls,"  Jacques  assured  her; 
"thou  dost  not  know  the  human  nature  of  an  old 
maid,  my  child." 

This  he  said  looking  up  at  her  as  he  went 
downstairs  the  night  of  the  arrival  of  the  guests. 
He  was  going  to  meet  them. 

"Au  revoir,  bebe!"  he  called,  as  he  walked 
along  the  brick  passageway  to  the  door.  He 
was  thinking:  "There  will  not  be  any  prettier  at 


JACQUES'   OWN   WAY  41 

the  balls  this  year.     She  is  indeed  beautiful  at 
times." 

And  he  mentally  reviewed  her  eyes,  her  nose, 
her  mouth,  the  color  of  her  hair  and  the  way  it 
grew  upon  her  forehead,  dwelling  upon  each  fea- 
ture, each  attribute,  in  turn,  with  critical  satis- 
faction. At  Canal  Street  he  quickened  his  pace 
to  a  brisk,  swinging  walk,  and  his  mind  turned 
to  more  important  matters. 

"  I  shall  do  this,  —  I  shall  do  that,  —  I  shall 
do  the  other." 

This  was  the  tenor  of  his  thoughts  as  he  made 
his  way  down  towards  the  river-end  of  the  broad, 
gay  street.  Plans,  combinations,  decisions!  — 
Jacques  had  many  on  hand,  all  prospering. 

"These  are  the  things  that  I  shall  do." 
.     Shall   do!     Shall    do!     There  was    no   "if" 
among  his  words. 

Ah,  the  complacent  fatness  of  a  contented 
mind! 


THE    ARRIVAL 

JACQUES  was  thinking  intently,  while  he  paced 
the  ill-lighted  platform  before  the  waiting-room 
with  unconcerned  audibleness.  He  set  his  chin 
more  firmly  and  drew  his  eyebrows  close  together. 

The  night  was  clear  and  mild,  as  nights  so 
often  are  in  New  Orleans  in  December,  and  pres- 
ently the  train,  which  was  late,  would  roll  in, 
past  the  platform,  under  the  open  sky.  On  other 
nights,  when  it  rained  and  the  train  rolled  in  just 
the  same,  Northern  visitors  felt  that  it  was  a  very 
open  sky  indeed;  and  as  they  groped  around 
sloppily  between  the  tracks,  they  said  unfriendly 
things  about  the  Southern  hospitality  that  dumped 
its  guests  out  in  the  mud  at  such  a  time,  and  let 
them  scurry  for  shelter  as  best  they  might.  But 
in  fine  weather  —  the  soft,  traditional  weather  of 
the  South  —  strangers  noted  only  the  blue  dark- 
ness and  the  stars.  This  is  what  they  would  do 
to-night. 

Jacques  paused  beside  a  lamp  and  looked  at 
his  watch;  but  this  attention  to  external  affairs 
was  purely  involuntary,  for  it  was  not  the  coming 


THE  ARRIVAL  43 

of  the  maiden  ladies  which  caused  that  thoughtful 
wrinkle  between  his  brows. 

Some  three  weeks  before,  there  had  come  to 
the  city  with  a  party  of  railroad  magnates  a 
young  New  Yorker,  a  man  of  thirty  or  there- 
abouts, dilettante,  idle,  and  overburdened  with 
riches.  Through  somebody  on  the  Cotton  Ex- 
change to  whom  he  had  letters,  he  met  Jacques, 
and  took  a  fancy  to  him,  following  him  about  in 
the  uneasy  fashion  common  to  unoccupied  men, 
taking  him  off  to  luncheon,  and  inventing  excuses 
for  delaying  him  on  street  corners.  When  the 
railroad  men  went  off  in  their  private  car,  and 
Jacques  found  Curtis  Baird  still  loitering  about 
the  Cotton  Exchange,  he  felt  for  this  wretchedly 
wealthy  young  cynic  and  philosopher  something 
that  was  at  once  envy  and  pity  and  contempt. 
But  when  Baird  had  for  three  days  ingeniously 
turned  every  subject  of  conversation  into  a  dis- 
cussion of  Jacques'  ability  and  Jacques'  pros- 
pects, and  accompanied  this  discussion  by  an 
undercurrent  of  comment  upon  his  own  devil- 
may  -  care  attitude  and  lack  of  occupation, 
Jacques'  mind  emitted  a  second  prophetic  flash, 
similar  to  the  one  which  had  inspired  him  years 
before,  and  aghast,  he  said  within  himself :  — 

"Behold!     The  capitalist!" 

Then  that  involuntary  muscle  of  the  mind  which 
is  the  instinct  of  an  honorable  man  reacted  with 
a  jerk,  and  drew  Jacques  up  sharp  on  the  defen- 
sive. 


44  DIANA   VICTRIX 

"If  this  misanthrope  has  anything  to  say  to 
me,  he  may  say  it,  but  if  he  thinks  I  'm  the  kind 
of  deadbeat  that  will  assist  him  to  say  it "  — 

Here  Jacques'  thoughts  seethed  into  an  emo- 
tional desire  to  kick  the  man  who  should  so  dare 
to  impugn  his  honor. 

But  after  another  week  Mr.  Baird,  having  felt 
his  way  with  all  the  ironic  distrust  and  self -con- 
temptuous alertness  of  the  skeptic,  came  to  the 
point  and  made  his  proposition  like  a  gentleman. 
Small  wonder  was  it  that  Jacques  had  little  space 
in  his  soul  for  the  contemplation  of  imaginary 
old  maids.  He  had  had  the  thing  on  his  mind 
for  two  days  now,  and  he  had  kept  it  close,  even 
from  his  father.  He  had  not  given  his  answer, 
and  was  not  to  give  it  for  a  month,  unless  he 
chose ;  but  as  he  walked  the  platform  this  evening 
he  was  trailing  air-castles  at  every  step,  —  busi- 
ness air-castles,  of  course,  crammed  full  of  cotton- 
futures. 

And  then  the  train  rolled  in,  and  he  went 
down  across  the  tracks,  his  thoughts  one  blur  for 
the  moment,  as  happens  sometimes  when  one  is 
compelled  to  make  a  sudden  readjustment  of 
time  and  place  in  dropping  from  dreams  to  real- 
ity. Before  this  readjustment  had  taken  place, 
Jacques'  automatic  centres  —  it  must  have  been 
his  automatic  centres,  for  there  was  no  other 
reason  for  his  remarkable  course  of  action  —  had 
carried  him  across  the  track  and  brought  him 


THE  ARRIVAL  45 

to  a  standstill  before  —  two  women?  Yes,  of 
course!  but  why  these  two?  He  raised  his  hat 
to  one  of  them  with  the  same  precision  which  had 
characterized  his  previous  actions,  and  said :  — 

"Miss  Spenser,  I  believe?  "  And  then,  having 
arrived  at  full  consciousness,  he  was  about  to 
add,  "Pray  pardon  me,  I  have  made  a  mistake !  " 
when  he  realized  that  the  lady  was  saying :  — 

"  This  is  Mr.  Dumarais,  is  it  not  ?  Miss  Ben- 
nett and  I  had  decided  that  it  must  be,  when  we 
saw  you  leave  the  platform." 

For  a  moment  Jacques  was  stunned.  When 
he  had  assumed  the  responsibility  of  the  bags, 
and  was  piloting  his  companions  along  Canal 
Street  in  search  of  the  proper  down-town  car,  he 
was  obliged  to  fight  down  a  strong  inclination  to 
stand  still  in  the  middle  of  the  street  and  laugh  ; 
but  he  succeeded  in  finding  the  car  without  mak- 
ing himself  conspicuous,  and  as  they  jingled  down 
one  of  the  narrow  French  thoroughfares  he  was 
able  to  collect  himself,  and  recover  to  some  extent 
from  his  astonishment. 

"A  mule-car,  Sylvia!"  said  Miss  Spenser. 
"The  last  time  we  rode  in  a  mule-car  we  were  in 
Naples." 

She  said  it  with  a  reminiscent  glow  in  her 
voice,  and  Sylvia,  without  turning,  smiled  at  her 
out  of  the  darkness  in  a  sad,  preoccupied  fashion. 
There  was  not  any  blue  nor  brown  in  Sylvia's 
eyes;  they  were  gray,  the  color  of  smoke,  almost 


46  DIANA    VICTEIX 

black,  soft  and  dusky  behind  the  shadows  of  the 
long  dark  lashes.  Jacques  had  gray  eyes,  too, 
but  there  was  a  steel  sword -flash  in  them  and 
a  sparkle  that  was  blue.  Sylvia's  eyes  never 
flashed,  but  the  fire  of  her  soul  burned,  intense 
and  steady,  behind  the  smoke  and  through  the 
soft  darkness.  She  had  a  very  still  face.  Some 
faces  are  blank  from  lack  of  power  to  receive  im- 
pressions ;  but  we  do  not  call  them  still,  although 
they  are  immovable.  Sylvia's  face  was  quiet 
with  the  rapt  stillness  of  constant  receptivity. 
She  was  pale,  too,  to-night,  from  the  journey, 
and  her  friend  involuntarily  moved  nearer  to  her 
and  drew  the  wrap  more  closely  about  her  throat. 

Jacques  made  the  usual  commonplace  remarks 
about  journeys  and  fatigue  and  the  weather,  until 
it  was  time  to  jerk  the  bell-strap  and  stop  the 
car;  and  in  another  minute  the  three  were  stand- 
ing on  a  narrow,  unevenly  paved  sidewalk  in  a 
narrow,  dark  street,  down  the  centre  of  which  the 
mule-car  leisurely  jingled.  The  houses,  huddled 
close  together,  some  high  and  some  low,  made 
a  broken  line  against  the  sky  down  both  sides  of 
the  street;  and  the  balconies  jutting  out  at  irregu- 
lar intervals,  and  from  irregular  heights,  over  the 
sidewalk  projected  quaint  masses  of  black  shadow 
into  the  already  self-evident  darkness. 

Jacques  stood  in  a  grim,  arched  doorway,  be- 
fore a  dingy,  ancient  double  door,  fitting  a  latch- 
key into  an  incongruous  modern  Yale  lock. 


THE  ARRIVAL  47 

From  somewhere  above,  faint  sounds  of  music 
came  down  to  them,  and  as  one  half  of  the  door 
swung  back  and  let  them  into  a  wide  brick  pas- 
sageway, these  sounds  became  more  distinct  and 
resolved  themselves  finally  into  words :  — 

"Toujours,"  sang  a  man's  voice  wistfully,  and 
again,  "Toujours." 

Some  one  played  a  pathetic  strain  on  a  piano, 
and  the  refrain  came  again,  softly,  slowly :  — 

"  Je  reve  aux  ^t^s  qui  demeurent  .  .  . 
Toujours." 

Then  the  piano  dreamily. 

Broad  steps  came  down  from  the  inside  of  the 
house  to  a  door  at  one  side  of  the  passage.  This 
door  was  not  blank  and  sullen  like  the  one  which 
opened  upon  the  street;  it  was  light,  with  panes 
of  glass  half  way  down,  and  had  white  curtains 
behind  it,  looped  back  to  show  the  wide,  shallow 
stairs.  At  the  other  end  of  the  passage  there 
was  an  open  arch,  from  which  hung  a  severe  iron 
lamp,  and  beyond,  leaves  flickered  in  the  dim 
lamplight. 

While  the  piano  played,  the  two  women  tiptoed 
down  to  the  arch  and  Jacques  followed  them. 
Standing  beneath  the  lamp,  they  looked  into  a 
courtyard,  bricked  like  the  passage,  and  contain- 
ing several  square  parterres  raised  about  a  foot 
from  the  pavement  and  neatly  inclosed  by  the 
bricks.  A  large  water-jar  stood  in  one  corner 
of  the  court,  and  the  latticed  galleries  of  the 


48  DIANA    VICTEIX 

house  inclosed  the  court  on  two  sides,  while  the 
blank  walls  of  other  houses,  of  different  heights, 
shut  in  the  two  remaining  sides.  The  light  from 
an  open  window  above  the  arch  was  reflected 
upon  the  blank  wall  opposite,  and  through  this 
window  the  music  came  quite  clearly  now,  and 
the  singer  was  beginning  again :  — 

"  Ici-bas  les  levres  effleurent 
Sans  rien  laisser  de  leur  velours ; 
Je  reve  aux  baisers  qui  demeurent 
Toujours." 

"Sully  Prudhomme!  "  whispered  Enid  Spenser 
excitedly,  touching  Sylvia. 

"He  is  a  favorite  with  my  father,"  explained 
Jacques,  also  in  a  whisper. 

"Toujours,"  sang  the  voice,  thrilling  with  pas- 
sionate anticipation. 

"But  —  the  —  music?"  murmured  Enid,  look- 
ing afar  off  as  she  tried  to  recall  the  melody. 

"My  little  sister  has  composed  the  music," 
said  Jacques  simply.  "It  is  she  also  who  plays. 
The  voice  is  my  brother's." 

"  Je  reve  aux  baisers  qui  demeurent 
Toujours." 

Then,  as  they  listened  once  more  to  the  accom- 
paniment, Jacques  gave  them  the  piece  of  infor- 
mation which  he  had  been  desirous  of  imparting 
all  along. 

"My  father  is  blind,"  he  said;  "will  you  par- 
don me  if  I  ask  you  now  to  go  up  to  him,  and 


THE  ARRIVAL  49 

speak  to  him  each  one  in  turn  as  I  give  him  your 
names?  He  is  able  to  distinguish  by  the  voice." 

"We  shall  be  only  too  glad  to  do  so,"  Enid 
answered,  and  Sylvia's  eyes  were  wide  with  pity 
as  her  lips  smiled  assent. 

They  went  to  the  glass  doors  after  that  and  up 
the  stairs,  and  the  voice  sang  with  a  low  wail  of 
hunger  and  hopefulness :  — 

"  Ici-bas  tous  les  homines  pleurent 
Leurs  amities  ou  leurs  amours ; 
Je  reve  aux  couples  qui  demeurent 
Toujours." 

Ah,  the  tears  and  the  longing  in  the  sweet 
voice ! 

"  Tou  .  .  .  jours." 

They  waited  outside  the  parlor  door  for  the  re- 
frain. Hope  was  strong  in  that  last  line:  — 

"  Je  r§ve  aux  couples  qui  demeurent 
Toujours." 

The  room  which  they  entered  was  large,  and 
full  of  clumsy  dark  furniture,  whose  ancient  and 
harmonious  dignity  was  impertinently  modernized 
by  fluffy,  dangling,  bright-colored  tissue-paper 
balls  and  flowers,  and  cheap,  home-made  tidies. 
Two  or  three  fine  old-fashioned  portraits  shared 
the  walls  with  plaques,  celluloid  Christmas  cards, 
and  a  colored  crayon  drawing  of  a  lady  and  an 
urn,  done  by  madame  in  her  youth.  The  carpet, 
once  handsome  enough  of  its  kind,  with  a  gigantic 
medallion  pattern  woven  through  it  in  decided 


50  DIANA   V1CTRIX 

colors,  was  worn  and  mellowed  now  to  a  real 
beauty;  and  a  new  and  gaudy  rug,  in  scarlet  and 
green,  lay  before  the  small  open  grate. 

Jeanne  turned  on  the  piano  stool  and  sat  there, 
round -eyed,  staring  at  the  new-comers  with  all  her 
astonished  might  as  Jacques  led  them  across  the 
room  to  his  step-mother. 

Madame  blinked  a  little  at  Jacques,  and  re- 
garded him  for  a  moment  with  an  absolutely 
vacant  countenance  as  he  spoke  to  her;  then,  be- 
coming aware  of  the  two  women  beside  him,  she 
staggered  to  her  feet  in  a  shaky,  jellied  fashion, 
turned  several  shades  of  pink,  and  smiled  uncer- 
tainly, her  head  on  one  side. 

Jocelin  had  moved  one,  two,  slow  steps  awray 
from  the  piano,  looking  at  Sylvia.  He  seemed 
unconscious  of  his  movement,  but  he  stopped  and 
watched  her.  It  was  as  if  he  walked  in  his  sleep 
and  stood  still  to  see  a  dream  pass  by.  Fortu- 
nately she  was  not  looking  at  him ;  she  had  turned 
away  to  where  Monsieur  Dumarais  stood  beside 
his  chair,  waiting  with  the  embarrassed  uncer- 
tainty of  the  blind. 

"Miss  Spenser,  may  I  present  my  father?" 
said  Jacques. 

Enid's  words  came  from  her  lips  as  if  they 
were  the  clear  strokes  of  a  bell.  She  had  remem- 
bered that  monsieur  distinguished  by  the  voice. 

"We  are  so  grateful  to  you  for  taking  us  into 
your  home,"  she  began;  "we  are  so  happy  to  be 


THE  ARRIVAL  51 

here.  We  thank  you  for  giving  us  this  pleasure, 
Mr.  Dumarais." 

"The  pleasure  is  ours,  mademoiselle,"  returned 
the  old  gentleman  with  an  impressive  bow. 

"Miss  Bennett,  my  father,"  Jacques  contin- 
ued. 

Sylvia  came  a  step  nearer  to  the  blind  man 
and  hesitated.  The  room  was  very  quiet  for  a 
moment,  but  at  last  she  said :  — 

"I  also  care  for  Sully  Prudhomme,  Mr.  Du- 
marais. Will  you  let  me  talk  with  you  about 
him  some  day?  I  have  with  me  a  little  new 
edition  of  his  poems  which  it  might  interest  you 
to  —  to  —  hear  about. " 

She  had  meant  to  say  "see,"  but  she  had 
remembered.  Jacques  realized,  with  a  start, 
that  he  had  not  heard  her  voice  before,  —  a  voice 
like  a  long  sigh.  Jocelin  was  motionless  as  one 
rapt  in  prayer. 

Monsieur  put  out  his  hand  with  an  eager, 
trembling  gesture,  and  Sylvia  laid  her  own  in  it 
and  looked  at  him  so  that  it  seemed  as  if  she 
must  compel  his  sight. 

"It  will  indeed  be  a  happiness  to  me,  made- 
moiselle," he  said,  with  great  simplicity  and 
sweetness. 

By  this  time  Jeanne  had  sidled  up  to  Jacques 
and  was  ready  with  her  shy  greeting,  remnants 
of  childlike  astonishment  still  lingering  in  her 
wide-open  eyes.  And  then  it  was  Jocelin's  turn, 
but  Jocelin  only  bowed  very  low. 


52  DIANA   VICTEIX 

A  period  of  stiffness  followed,  during  which 
Enid  and  Sylvia  sat  on  one  of  the  rosewood  and 
faded  damask  sofas  and  chatted  politely,  until 
madame,  having  interpreted  the  enigmatic  hints 
conveyed  by  Jacques'  gesticulatory  eyebrows, 
arose  with  a  jump  and  stammered:  — 

"You  —  you  —  m-rnust  have  much  fatigue;  I 
weel  assist  you  to  your  rooms." 

Jeanne  assisted  them  also,  and  Jocelin  went 
down  into  the  courtyard  and  paced  the  alleys 
between  the  parterres  with  a  cigarette. 

In  his  dusky  corner  Monsieur  Dumarais  sat 
with  a  delightful  smile  of  quizzical  amusement 
upon  his  lips,  and  when  he  heard  his  son  ap- 
proaching the  smile  grew  veritably  mischievous; 
but  he  said  nothing,  and  Jacques,  standing  before 
him,  caught  the  look  and  burst  out  with  his  big 
laugh.  He  and  his  father  were  the  only  ones 
who  saw  the  joke. 


CHAPTER   IV 

TWO   OLD   MAIDS 

ENID  always  had  to  spend  a  long  time  arrang- 
ing her  hair  at  night;  it  was  such  heavy  hair, 
like  a  mane,  burnished  bronze,  with  a  big  ripple 
along  its  length  now  and  then.  Enid  was  tall 
and  broad  and  strong ;  her  skin  was  smooth ;  her 
flesh  was  firm;  her  eyes  were  brown  and  clear, 
with  golden  lights  in  them,  like  the  lights  in  her 
hair. 

She  stood  before  the  mirror  to-night,  her 
wrapper  falling  straight  down  around  her,  one 
arm,  half  bare,  holding  a  mass  of  clinging  hair 
above  her  head.  She  was  a  beautiful  woman. 
People  always  knew  at  once  that  she  was  some- 
body. It  was  not  her  physique  that  produced 
this  impression;  she  might  have  been  statuesque 
and  still  have  remained  merely  one  among  many 
handsome  parlor  ornaments.  It  was  the  large, 
observant,  judicial  gaze  which  distinguished  her, 
the  look  as  of  one  having  authority.  Her  mo- 
tions, too,  expressed  that  dignified  preoccupation, 
that  complete  emancipation  from  self-conscious- 
ness, which  is  sometimes  the  mark  of  one  who  has 


54  DIANA    VICTRIX 

taken  a  stand  in  the  world  and  has  been  recog- 
nized. 

Enid  had  touched  success,  and  the  manifesta- 
tion of  the  glory  had  not  departed  from  her ;  she 
was  as  yet  clothed  in  an  atmosphere  that  was 
radiant.  It  is  a  wonderful  thing  to  touch  success 
when  one  is  young, —  a  wonderful  thing,  but  per- 
ilous, there  is  so  much  of  life  still  to  be  lived 
afterwards.  Enid  was  twenty-eight,  and  in  these 
days  success  is  very  like  a  miracle  at  twenty- 
eight.  It  means  that  he  who  succeeds  is  unusu- 
ally clever,  or  that,  for  the  moment,  the  world 
is  unusually  appreciative.  One  trembles  a  little 
when  the  world  has  sudden  fits  of  appreciative- 
ness,  —  because  it  is  such  a  cruel  world. 

But  Enid  did  not  tremble.  She  seldom  in- 
dulged in  uncomfortable  forebodings;  her  mind 
was  intensely  but  healthily  occupied  with  a  num- 
ber of  important  matters,  none  of  which  pertained 
directly  to  herself.  She  had  a  long  experience, 
through  her  friendship  with  Sylvia,  of  the  kind 
of  mind  that  discerns  the  moral,  spiritual,  and 
intellectual  pitfalls  which  lie  upon  every  pathway 
in  life,  and  she  had  a  tender  and  loving  sympathy 
for  all  such  minds,  but  she  could  not  allow  her- 
self the  time  for  speculation  of  that  order.  Time 
was  very  precious  to  Enid.  Perhaps  that  was 
why  she  had  accomplished  so  much  in  her  short 
life.  Perhaps  that  was  why  at  twenty -eight  she 
was  already  a  figure  of  importance  in  her  own 
community. 


TH'O   OLD  MAIDS  55 

Enid  had  not  written  a  book,  —  no.  Nor  yet 
was  she  a  poet.  She  was  a  teacher  of  History 
and  Social  Science,  she  had  several  private 
classes  among  women,  and  she  gave  lectures.  It 
was  through  the  lectures  that  she  had  become 
known.  They  were  brilliant  pieces  of  work,  and 
were  received  with  the  enthusiasm  which  was 
their  due.  Her  very  youth  helped  her  in  gaining 
her  audiences.  It  made  the  reserved,  old-fash- 
ioned people  lenient  towards  her  radicalism, 
while  at  the  same  time  it  gave  fresh  impetus  to 
the  hopes  of  the  radicals.  The  best  people  knew 
Enid's  name  now,  and  scholars,  professors,  and 
specialists  received  her  with  respect  as  an  equal. 
Deep  down  within  herself  Enid  took  their  homage 
with  the  humility  and  prayerful  reverence,  and 
also  with  the  skeptical  perception  of  its  value  as 
a  vanity  of  vanities,  which  are  the  bulwarks  of 
a  large  soul ;  but  it  helped  her,  nevertheless,  more 
than  she  realized,  in  the  doing  of  her  work. 

Her  face  was  vividly  awake  as  she  arranged 
her  hair,  and  now  and  then  her  lips  moved  un- 
consciously. Finally  she  flung  back  the  two  long 
heavy  tails  which  she  had  been  braiding,  and 
stood  still  as  if  listening,  but  everything  was 
quiet;  so  she  lowered  the  gas  and  moved  across 
the  large,  square  room  to  Sylvia's  door. 

Sylvia  was  sitting  half  dressed  and  very  quiet 
in  an  armchair. 

"Didn't  I  just  know  it?"  said  Enid,  in  tones 


56  DIANA   VICTRIX 

of  accusation ;  "  I  said,  '  She  is  sitting  there  not 
moving  a  muscle,  and  she  is  tired  all  to  little 
bits.''  Then,  with  gentle  playfulness,  "I  wish 
you  would  get  up  and  scream  and  throw  things 
and  be  violent,  Sylvia,  when  you  are  tired;  it 
would  be  such  a  pleasure  to  me  to  have  you  do 
that,  instead  of  sitting  so  abnormally  still." 

She  flung  herself  down  by  the  armchair  and 
laid  one  arm  across  Sylvia's  knee.  Sylvia  patted 
the  arm  indulgently  and  said,  after  a  moment,  in 
her  low,  musical  monotone :  — 

"The  face  of  the  young  man  who  sang  haunts 
me." 

Enid  gave  a  little  gasp.  "That  I  should  live 
to  hear  you  say  you  were  haunted  by  the  face  of 
a  man ! "  she  gurgled  indistinctly  against  her 
friend's  knee;  and  then,  lifting  her  head,  "True! 
he  did  have  the  very  largest  nose  I  ever  saw." 

Sylvia  leaned  her  head  against  the  back  of  the 
chair  and  laughed,  a  soft,  sudden  little  laugh. 

"I  do  not  remember  his  nose,"  she  said.  "He 
was  looking  straight  at  me,  and  he  had  the  sad- 
dest eyes,  as  if  the  world  were  a  hurt  to  him  and 
he  asked  the  reason  why." 

"The  world  is  a  hurt  to  a  good  many  of  us," 
said  Enid  restlessly. 

Sylvia  looked  distressed.  "I  don't  believe  he 
meant  the  same  kind  of  hurt,"  she  said  hesitat- 
ingly. "I  —  I  —  wasn't  thinking  of  that  kind 
when  I  said  it." 


TWO   OLD  MAIDS  57 

"No,  dear,  I  know  you  weren't,  I  understood," 
returned  Enid;  "only  it  happened  to  make  me 
think  of  that  kind  of  hurt.  I  didn't  mean  to 
pervert  your  words." 

There  was  a  short  silence,  and  then  she  said 
suggestively,  "Bed,  Sylvia?" 

Sylvia  bowed  herself  over  the  bronze  head  at 
her  knee,  and  there  was  distress  in  her  sombre 
eyes. 

"I  wonder  if  I  have  done  right?"  she  ques- 
tioned. "Are  you  sure  you  do  not  mind?  are 
you  very  sure?  I  have  taken  you  away  from 
your  work  just  when  people  were  beginning  to 
care  and  to  know.  Enid,  why  did  you  ever  say 
you  would  come  with  me?" 

"You  know  the  reason  why,  and  it  is  the  best 
of  all  reasons;  the  most  valid,  the  supreme  rea- 
son. Because  I  —  because  I  wanted  to.  We 
have  talked  this  over  so  fully  and  so  many  times. 
You  are  tired  to-night;  that  is  why  you  come 
back  to  it.  Besides,  you  are  not  taking  me  away 
from  it;"  she  stopped  a  moment,  and  her  face 
was  fixed  and  solemn;  "nothing  ever  takes  me 
away  from  it.  You  are  helping  to  fit  me  for  it. 
You  are  broadening  my  mind.  One  gets  to 
thinking  that  the  principles  which  apply  in  one's 
own  town  apply  to  the  universe,  and  one  grows 
autocratic  and  insists  upon  enforcing  them.  That 
is  narrow-mindedness  and  ignorance.  I  realized 
it  with  a  shock  to-night.  I  've  come  upon  an 


58  DIANA    VICTRIK 

entirely  new  set  of  conditions,  and  —  I  don't 
exactly  tremble  for  my  principles,  but  I  feel 
much  more  modest  about  them  than  I  ever  did 
before.  You  must  regard  yourself  in  the  light 
of  a  rescuer." 

Enid's  eyes  laughed,  but  Sylvia's,  which  had 
been  scanning  her  face  intently,  still  looked  trou- 
bled. 

"And,  moreover,"  Enid  continued,  "I  do  just 
luxuriate  in  all  this  romance  and  quaintness.  I 
love  doing  my  hair  before  an  ancient  pier-glass, 
and  listening  to  languid  young  men  sing  senti- 
mental love-songs.  It  is  like  reading  light  litera- 
ture because  one's  doctor  prescribes  it,  and  I  do 
adore  light  literature  when  my  conscience  allows 
me  to  indulge  in  it." 

Sylvia's  face  grew  even  less  reassured,  and  she 
turned  it  away  absently.  Enid  went  on  hastily, 
feeling  the  mistake  in  her  own  tone. 

"  Besides,  you  know  when  one  is  actively  work- 
ing, as  I  was  all  last  winter  and  this  summer, 
one  doesn't  get  time  to  take  in  new  ideas;  one 
works  the  old  ones  threadbare;  and  one  is  in 
danger  of  falling  behind  the  times,  and  losing 
one's  hold  on  the  cause  one  has  been  desiring  to 
support.  I  know  I  need  time  for  reflection,  and 
if  you  had  n't  carried  me  off  I  should  never  have 
taken  the  time.  And  there  are  so  many  things 
I  ought  to  read.  I  always  feel  myself  a  sham 
when  I  think  of  the  way  I  have  been  lecturing 


TWO   OLD  MAIDS  59 

on  Social  Science  all  winter,  and  the  assurance 
with  which  I  have  expounded  my  views,  and 
when  I  realize  how  little  I  know  and  how  much 
I  ought  to  know.  It  is  only  because  socialistic 
and  social-scientific  ideas  are  new,  and  very  little 
understood  by  the  world  in  general,  that  I  have 
been  tolerated  at  all.  But,"  staring  reflectively 
at  the  floor,  "I  do  think  I  know  more  than  most 
of  the  people  I  have  lectured  to;  so  —  perhaps 
—  it  was  excusable  in  me  to  talk.  And  now, 
when  I  think  of  how  the  bottom  of  my  trunk  is 
lined  with  fat  books !  "  Enid  paused  to  bring 
to  her  imagination  that  delightful  picture — "I 
rejoice  in  thinking  how  wise  and  well-equipped 
I  shall  be  when  I  go  back.  And  then,  too,  I 
shall  be  able  to  test  my  principles  in  this  entirely 
new  environment."  She  twisted  a  little  in  order 
to  look  into  Sylvia's  half -averted  face.  "Have 
faith,  dear;  it  is  all  for  the  best.  We  should 
never  have  come  here,  if  it  had  not  been  well  to 
come." 

She  was  aware,  after  she  had  said  it,  that  her 
last  remark  was  of  rather  too  passive  an  optimism 
to  bring  much  comfort  to  a  self -accusing  soul. 

Sylvia  sighed,  the  faintest  little  sigh,  and  lay 
back  in  her  chair,  and  the  two  sat  silent  for 
a  while.  Enid  glanced  up  questioningly  once  at 
the  pale,  still  face  above  her,  and  then  looked 
towards  the  clock  upon  the  mantel-shelf,  but  put 
down  her  head  again  without  saying  anything. 


60  DIANA    VICTRIX 

"Go  to  bed,  dear,"  said  Sylvia  at  last;  "it  is 
getting  late.  I  am  not  ready  to  sleep  quite  yet, 
truly.  Don't  insist  upon  it.  All  this  newness 
of  place  and  people  has  waked  me  up.  But  I 
shall  not  sit  up  much  longer.  I  promise." 

"I  shall  do  your  hair  first,"  replied  Enid,  get- 
ting up. 

"Ah,  no!"  Sylvia  cried.  "Please  not.  I 
did  not  bring  you  here  to  be  a  maid  and  to  wait 
upon  me." 

"No,  you  were  wise  not  to,"  returned  Enid: 
"you  would  have  had  to  discharge  me  within  a 
week  for  insubordination;"  and  she  selected  the 
brush  and  comb  from  among  the  toilet  articles  on 
the  bureau  and  advanced  towards  the  back  of  the 
armchair,  brandishing  them  with  determination. 

"You  humiliate  me  when  you  perform  these 
menial  services  for  me,"  protested  Sylvia,  with 
a  final  attempt  at  displeasure. 

"You  humiliate  me  when  you  talk  about 
menial  services,"  replied  Enid  with  mocking 
gravity;  "I  should  think  you  ought  to  have  de- 
rived more  profit  from  my  socialistic  instruction." 

She  passed  the  comb  through  Sylvia's  dark, 
soft  hair,  and  one  or  two  downy  rings  fell  back 
again  upon  the  transparent  forehead,  veined  blue 
at  the  temples. 

"Now,"  she  continued,  "I  am  going  to  brush 
out  all  the  hauntings  of  that  large-nosed  young 
man.  This  is  no  time  of  night  for  him  to  be 


TWO   OLD  MAIDS  61 

around  here  puzzling  you  with  his  personality. 
As  for  the  look  in  his  eyes,  I  don't  believe  it 
goes  back  any  farther  than  the  retina;  but  I  will 
make  one  concession,  —  he  can  sing !  I  do  not 
think  I  ever  heard  quite  such  a  voice.  It  was 
not  powerful,  but  how  sweet !  And  did  you  hear 
the  wail  in  it,  or  rather  under  it?  " 

Sylvia  did  not  answer,  and  Enid,  accustomed 
to  her  silences,  went  on :  -r- 

"  He  did  not  say  one  word,  but  the  other  young 
man  was  quite  a  chatterer,  wasn't  he?  And 
such  good  English!  not  a  bit  of  an  accent;  and 
such  a  nice,  hearty  voice !  I  liked  him,  he  seemed 
so  sensible.  And  did  you  notice  how  affectionate 
he  was  with  the  pretty  sister?  He  looked  so 
proud  when  he  introduced  her.  The  idea  of  a 
child  like  that  making  such  music !  She  must  be 
a  genius.  Oh,  Sylvia,  I  am  glad  we  are  here! 
And  it  will  be  a  very  good  place  for  accomplish- 
ing all  the  reading  I  ought  to  do,  and  you  know 
I  want  to  write  that  article  for  the  '  North  Ameri- 
can.' Shall  I  braid  it  in  one  braid  to-night? 
Yes,  I  think  I  will." 

Enid  glanced  at  the  clock  as  she  talked. 

"I  shouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised  if  we  were  the 
last  ones  up  in  this  house,"  she  resumed,  after 
she  had  separated  the  hair  into  three  strands. 
"At  any  rate,  I  am  certain  that  Madame  Du- 
marais  is  fast  asleep.  Did  you  see  how  funny 
she  looked,  and  how  bewildered,  when  her  son 


62  DIANA    VICTRIX 

introduced  us?  I  know  she  had  been  napping 
all  through  that  lovely  ballad.  I  saw  the  young 
singer  down  in  the  courtyard  awhile  ago.  I  went 
out  on  the  piazza  to  explore.  Did  you  know  that 
our  rooms  opened  out  on  a  broad  piazza  inclosed 
by  blinds?  Well,  they  do.  Madame  Dumarais 
spoke  of  it  as  a  gallery,  and  it  is  just  that.  I 
peeped  through  the  shutters  and  saw  the  young 
man  down  in  the  courtyard.  He  was  smoking 
a  cigarette.  I  know  that  will  be  a  disappoint- 
ment to  you." 

"How  do  you  know  it  was  not  the  other  one?" 
asked  Sylvia,  looking  amused. 

"Because  he  stood  near  the  arch,  and  the 
shadow  of  his  nose  was  on  the  wall.  It  was  un- 
mistakable." 

They  both  laughed  in  a  subdued  fashion,  and 
Enid  put  the  brush  and  comb  back  on  the  bureau. 

"  I  shall  give  you  ten  minutes  for  your  prayers, 
no  longer!"  she  said;  "and  then  I  am  coming 
back,  and  you  are  going  to  lie  down  in  that  bed, 
and  the  light  is  going  to  be  put  out." 

When  she  returned  to  carry  out  her  intentions, 
Sylvia  was  already  lying  among  the  pillows. 

"I  think  I  shall  go  to  sleep  in  a  little  while 
now,"  she  said.  "You  really  do  like  it  here, 
don't  you,  Enid?  And  you  think  you  can  work 
well,  don't  you?  If  I  thought  I  was  keeping 
you  from  working,  I  should  not  let  you  stay  one 
moment.  It  is  wrong  enough  to  be  useless  in 


TWO    OLD  MAIDS  63 

the  world  one's  self;  but  if  I  thought  I  were  com- 
mitting the  crime  of  keeping  you  from  living, 
too,  Enid?" 

But  Enid  had  her  arms  about  her,  and  was 
saying  a  great  many  things  very  softly  in  the 
dark. 


CHAPTER   V 

JACQUES'  SISTER 

"THIS  is  my  winter!"  Jeanne  had  said  one 
morning  at  the  breakfast-table,  as  she  opened  the 
invitation  to  her  first  dancing-party;  and  after- 
wards, when  the  Dumarais  and  their  Northern 
visitors  looked  back,  they  always  called  the  time 
"Jeanne's  winter,"  and  they  remembered  Jeanne 
as  she  flitted  through  it,  ecstatic,  startled,  deli- 
cately lovely. 

When  the  shyness  had  worn  off,  —  as  much  as 
Jeanne's  shyness  ever  did  wear  off,  —  she  used 
to  run  in  often  upon  Enid  and  Sylvia,  crying :  — 

"  Here  is  another  invitation !  That  makes  the 
third  this  morning!  It  is  a  tea.  Jacques  is  go- 
ing to  get  me  a  book  for  my  engagements.  Will 
it  not  be  a  joke?  Veritably,  grande  dame!  " 

Or  there  would  be  a  smothered  knock,  and  she 
would  tumble  into  the  room  with  her  arms  full  of 
half -unwrapped  fluffiness  and  ribbons. 

"See!  for  the  german!  And  there  are  to  be 
slippers  to  match,  but  they  have  not  arrived. 
You  shall  see  them." 

And  perhaps  madame  had  followed  her  and 


JACQUES'   SISTER  65 

would  remain  standing  in  the  doorway,  swaying 
like  an  elephant.  Now  madame,  who  had  no 
taste  whatever  in  decorating  her  house,  was  with- 
out reproach  where  the  dressing  of  her  daughter 
was  concerned;  and  Jacques,  with  his  usual  com- 
mon sense,  saw  it,  and  in  this  one  matter  ac- 
corded her  complete  authority.  No  other  act  of 
forbearance  on  his  part  could  have  so  stirred  the 
depths  of  his  step-mother's  affection,  but  this 
one  aroused  in  her  pathetically  humble  soul  some- 
thing that  was  almost  adoration.  During  that 
winter,  madame  experienced  more  of  heaven  upon 
earth  than  is  permitted  to  most  people.  She 
ruminated  at  shop  windows  and  she  pored  over 
fashion-books.  Enid  and  Sylvia  did  not  get  very 
well  acquainted  with  her,  —  nobody  ever  did  get 
very  well  acquainted  with  madame. 

"The  real  festivities  do  not  begin  until  after 
Christmas,  you  know,"  Jeanne  had  explained 
gravely  to  Enid  one  day  soon  after  the  arrival 
of  the  two  women.  Enid  was  sitting  in  Sylvia's 
room  with  one  of  the  fat  books  on  her  knees,  and 
Sylvia  was  lying  on  the  lounge.  They  had  come 
in  from  a  short  walk  among  the  narrow  French 
streets.  The  weather  was  close  and  damp,  and 
there  was  no  sunlight  in  the  square,  plain  room. 
Sylvia  was  as  white  and  apathetic  as  the  day  itself. 

"Do  you  like  balls?  "  asked  Jeanne  anxiously. 
She  sat  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  with  her  arms 
twined  upward  about  one  of  the  posts  and  her 


66  DIANA    VICTEIX 

head  inquiringly  sidewise.  One  foot  dangled  back 
and  forth. 

Sylvia  looked  at  Enid  with  an  amused  smile, 
and  Enid  laughed  as  if  something  were  a  joke, 
and  said :  — 

"Oh,  of  course!     We  adore  them!  " 

Jeanne  felt  reassured.  "Jacques  said  you 
would  adore  them,"  she  announced  with  a  sigh  of 
satisfaction. 

"Your  brother  is  evidently  very  wise  about 
women,"  returned  Enid,  but  the  irony  in  her 
tone  was  lost  upon  the  little  French  girl. 

"Jacques  is  not  my  brother,"  she  said;  "Joce- 
lin  is  my  brother.  Monsieur  Dumarais,  my 
father,  married  maman  when  I  was  a  very  little 
girl.  My  name  is  Castaigne." 

She  was  not  aware  of  any  inconsistency  or  lack 
of  clearness  in  her  explanation,  but  Enid  turned 
the  words  over  in  her  mind  a  moment  before  she 
said :  — 

"Ah!"  and  then,  "but  he  is  just  like  a  bro- 
ther to  you,  after  all,  a  very  nice  brother." 

"That  is  what  every  one  says,"  Jeanne  agreed 
quietly,  "but  I  have  not  been  able  to  observe 
that  it  is  true." 

Enid's  eyes  met  Sylvia's  in  a  seemingly  absent 
manner.  Jeanne  swung  her  foot,  and  watched 
the  two  friends  with  the  direct,  meditative  gaze 
of  a  child. 

"Come  over  here  by  me,  Jeanne,"  said  Sylvia 


JACQUES'   SISTER  67 

after  a  pause.  "I  am  going  to  call  you  Jeanne, 
if  you  will  let  me ;  it  is  such  a  pretty  name,  I 
like  to  say  it." 

"Oh,  pray!  I  shall  be  charmed!"  cried 
Jeanne,  blushing;  and  she  came  and  sat  down 
beside  the  lounge. 

"Tell  me,"  Sylvia  continued,  "did  you  make 
the  little  song  I  heard  you  singing  this  morn- 
ing?" 

"Which  one?"  asked  Jeanne,  "this?"  She 
hummed  the  words  and  the  melody  under  her 
breath :  — 

"  Vous  d^sirez  savoir  de  moi 
D'ou  me  vient  pour  vous  ma  tendresse  ; 

Je  vous  aime,  voici  pourquoi : 
Vous  ressemblez  a  ma  jeunesse." 

"That  one?  Yes,  I  did  the  music,  but  it  is 
Sully  Prudhomme  again.  It  is  a  song  that 
Jacques  likes." 

"  Will  you  let  me  see  the  music  of  your  songs 
some  day?"  asked  Sylvia. 

"See  it?"  Jeanne  repeated.  "But  there  is 
nothing  to  see !  " 

"The  notes,  I  mean.  I  should  like  to  see  how 
you  do  it.  I  have  never  known  any  one  before 
who  wrote  music." 

"Oh!"  said  Jeanne,  and  she  laughed.  "But 
I  never  write  it!  I  only  play  it  on  the  piano 
and  sing  it  as  it  comes  out.  How  funny  that 
you  thought  I  wrote  it!  " 


68  DIANA    VICTRIX 

"But,  child,"  gasped  Enid,  laying  the  fat  book 
face  down  on  her  knee,  "you  must  write  it! 
Why,  what  are  you  thinking  of  ?  " 

Jeanne  looked  bewildered.  "It  is  not  neces- 
sary," she  explained;  "Jocelin  learns  them  in  a 
short  while  as  I  play,  and  I  know  them  already. 
They  remain." 

"But  only  think,"  said  Sylvia,  "how  many 
other  people  might  hear  them  and  love  them,  and 
sing  them  too,  if  you  would  write  them  down." 

"But  I  do  not  know  how  to  do  that,"  Jeanne 
replied,  "and  it  is  just  as  well,  after  all,  for  Joce- 
lin does  not  care  to  have  other  people  sing  his 
songs." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that,  with  all  those 
music -thoughts  stirring  in  your  brain,  you  have 
lived  for  nineteen  years  and  never  wanted  to 
make  people  listen  to  them?  "  said  Enid.  "Does 
not  something  cry  out  within  you,  '  Come,  hear 
me'?" 

"I  do  not  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Jeanne, 
without  enthusiasm. 

If  she  had  been  a  stone  wall,  she  could  not 
have  proved  more  stubborn,  more  inelastic  upon 
encounter;  and  yet  there  she  sat,  poised  as 
lightly  as  a  flower,  courteously,  uninterestedly  ex- 
pectant. The  baby  yellowness  had  never  faded 
from  her  hair;  her  eyes  were  brownest  brown, 
just  as  they  used  to  be;  but  she  had  grown  tall, 
and  was  made  up  of  long,  youthful  curves. 


JACQUES'   SISTEE  69 

Enid,  not  yet  recovered  from  the  shock  of  the 
stone  wall,  stared  at  this  slender,  flexile  creature. 
Sylvia,  too,  had  risen  on  her  elbow.  All  the 
inherent  and  trained  New  Englandism  in  the  two 
women  stood  forth  amazed,  outraged.  To  their 
two  minds,  that,  in  however  widely  different 
ways,  were  used  to  hoard  and  husband  every 
talent  jealously,  —  were  used  to  work  their  little 
allotments  of  appointed  or  mistaken  vocation 
with  never-flagging  conscientiousness,  harvesting 
rocks  in  fortitude  and  patience  year  after  year,  — 
this  light  dallying  with  a  great  gift  was  incom- 
prehensible, this  irresponsible  laziness  seemed  a 
crime. 

"Don't  you  know  what  ambition  is?"  asked 
Enid,  when  she  had  found  her  voice. 

Jeanne  pursed  up  her  lips  thoughtfully.  She 
had  been  thinking  of  something  else,  and  it  was 
difficult  to  remember  the  connection  of  this  ques- 
tion with  what  had  gone  before. 

"Jacques  is  ambitious,"  she  replied;  "he  has 
told  me  so." 

Enid  felt  baffled,  but  she  leaned  forward  and 
took  the  girl's  hand  in  her  own. 

"Look  at  me.  Say  this  to  yourself  now,  if 
you  have  never  said  it  before,  which  seems  in- 
credible to  me.  Say  this :  '  I  can  write  songs, 
I  can  make  music  if  I  will,  I  can  do  what  the 
great  masters  have  done,  I  can  create  melody. 
Some  day  all  the  world  shall  listen  when  my 


70  DIANA    VICTRIX 

thoughts  speak,  shall  listen  as  it  does  to  the  great 
ones.  I  will  make  it  listen !  '  Dream !  —  dream 
it,  child,  if  you  cannot  reason !  Say  to  yourself, 
'  If  it  might  be  that,  after  I  am  dead  long  years, 
my  name,  like  theirs,  shall  bring  a  glow  to  the 
heart  of  every  man  who  hears  it ! '  You  do  not 
know  how  to  praise  God  till  you  have  thought 
such  things." 

"It  is  through  such  stirrings,  too,  such  know- 
ledge of  greatness,  that  God  teaches  us  humility," 
murmured  Sylvia;  "the  one  awakens  the  other. 
It  is  strange  that  it  should  be  so." 

"The  one  ought  to  awaken  the  other  ;  I  be- 
lieve it  was  meant  to,"  assented  Enid;  "but  I 
do  not  think  it  always  does,  —  at  least,  history 
does  not  show  that  it  does." 

They  were  silent,  letting  their  thoughts  travel 
along  this  side  issue;  but  Jeanne  brought  them 
back  to  the  subject  in  hand. 

"I  do  not  understand  why  you  expect  me  to 
take  pleasure  in  thinking  about  after  I  am  dead," 
she  questioned.  "  I  really  should  not  take  pleas- 
ure in  it.  How  could  I  ?  " 

Enid  laughed  in  spite  of  herself.  "Think, 
then,  of  the  joy  of  living  and  creating  beautiful 
melody !  You  played  something  the  other  night, 
Jeanne,  that  might  have  been  part  of  an  Orato- 
rio. Think  what  it  means  to  be  given  the  right 
to  consecrate  your  life  to  the  perfecting  of  a  great 
art!  Don't  you  want  to  do  that?  " 


JACQUES1   SISTEE  71 

"I  do  not  find  it  attractive,"  said  Jeanne  apol- 
ogetically; "but  I  do  not  doubt  that  it  might  be 
so  for  any  one  who  liked  it,"  she  added  with  elab- 
orate politeness. 

Nobody  seemed  to  be  able  to  say  anything  for 
some  time  after  this.  Enid  bent  the  leaves  of 
her  book  abstractedly,  and  Sylvia  lay  with  her 
eyes  closed.  It  is  to  be  doubted  whether,  five 
years  later,  Enid  could  have  taken  the  trouble  to 
make  this  appeal  to  Jeanne's  ambition;  she 
might  have  learned  by  that  time  to  be  skeptical 
of  genius,  and  ambition,  too.  But,  as  yet,  she 
and  Sylvia  and  Jeanne  were  all  young  together, 
after  their  various  fashions.  These  Northerners 
were  college-bred,  and  a  college  woman  is  invari- 
ably younger  than  other  women  of  her  own  age. 
She  has  been  accorded  four  years  more  of  experi- 
ment, of  freedom  from  responsibility,  —  in  a 
word,  of  girlhood.  She  has  not  been  surprised 
into  matrimony,  nor  huddled  out  upon  the  thick 
of  the  struggle  for  existence.  She  enters  the 
battle  armed  with  a  maturity  of  power  and  a 
naivete  of  inexperience  which  make  her  curiously 
valiant  and  impetuous. 

A  ray  of  sunshine  came  through  the  gallery 
shutters  and  lay,  barred  and  wintry  pale,  upon  the 
threshold  of  the  open  door.  Down  in  the  court- 
yard madame's  mocking-bird  whistled.  Sylvia 
opened  her  eyes  and  smiled  at  Jeanne. 

"I  have  remained  too  long,"  said  Jeanne  tim- 


72  DIANA   VICTRIX 

idly;  "I  have  wearied  you  by  talking.  You 
should  have  sent  me  away." 

"Oh,  no,  indeed!"  said  Sylvia  reassuringly. 
"I  love  to  have  you.  Do  not  go." 

But  Jeanne  was  not  to  be  persuaded.  As  she 
went  along  the  gallery  she  sang  the  last  stanza  of 
the  song  Jacques  liked :  — 

"  Je  vous  tends  chaque  jour  la  main, 
Vous  offrant  1'amour  qui  m'oppresse, 

Mais  vous  passez  votre  chemin, 
Vous  ressemblez  a  ma  jeunesse." 

Enid  got  up  and  walked  around  the  room. 
She  moved  with  a  slow,  swinging  step,  and  yet 
softly,  and  she  picked  up  and  set  down  the  small 
objects  on  the  mantel-shelf  and  bureau  in  a  rest- 
less manner  that  belied  the  deliberation  of  her 
tread. 

"I  could  not  have  believed  such  a  thing  possi- 
ble," she  said  at  last.  "I  did  not  know  talent 
ever  came  without  also  the  desire  to  perfect  its 
expression.  Her  music  is  exquisite,  and  she  has 
no  more  care  for  it  than  if  it  were  a  tin  trumpet." 

"It  is  something  to  be  released  from  the  de- 
sire," said  Sylvia  huskily;  "never  to  want,  and 
want,  at  the  same  time  doing  nothing." 

"I  do  not  believe  that  there  is  release  from  the 
desire,"  said  Enid  gravely  ;  "one  must  be  born 
without  it, — otherwise  it  remains."  She  stood 
beside  the  lounge  and  looked  down.  "When 
you  are  well,  you  will  no  longer  do  nothing." 


JACQUES'   SISTER  73 

"Shall  I  not?"  whispered  Sylvia.  "What  is 
*  well '  ?  Something  is  wrong  with  me,  for  I 
have  never  known." 

This  was  a  mood  that  Enid  had  schooled  her- 
self to  endure,  but  a  look  of  discouragement 
crossed  her  face  as  she  pushed  a  chair  to  the  side 
of  the  lounge  and  sat  down. 

"Sylvia,"  she  began  gently,  "don't  you  think 
it  is  a  little  foolish  in  you  to  talk  about  never 
having  done  things,  when  you  have  gone  through 
four  years  of  college  life  and  taken  your  degree? " 

"And  how?"  asked  Sylvia,  with  a  choke  in 
her  voice.  "Dragging  constantly  along  the  edge 
of  a  breakdown.  Never  ready  with  a  paper  when 
it  was  due,  always  asking  longer  time,  always 
leaving  a  thing  with  a  sense  that  it  was  unfin- 
ished, because  I  could  see  how  much  better  it 
would  have  been  if  I  had  done  it  another  way; 
at  the  end,  just  catching  at  the  vanishing  edges 
of  that  degree.  How  they  ever  gave  it  to  me 
1  can't  imagine !  I  always  feel  ashamed  to  own 
it.  It  was  because  I  was  so  young  then  that  the 
mere  fact  of  staying  there  gave  me  hope.  Was 
it  fair  to  lure  me  on  by  such  a  miserable  half- 
achievement  and  then  drop  me  flat,  doing  no- 
thing? Sometimes  I  get  to  the  point  where  I 
can't  sentimentalize  over  divine  Love  and  Justice 
any  longer.  I  trust  it  is  an  occasional  relief  to 
God.  If  you  want  to  comfort  me,  Enid,  don't 
bring  back  those  weary  college  days." 


74  DIANA    V1CTRIX 

"Oh,  Sylvia!"  said  Enid;   "Oh,  Sylvia!" 

"No,  dear,  no!  I  did  not  mean  just  that.  I 
did  not  mean  the  part  that  belongs  to  you,  —  to 
you  and  me.  I  forgot!  It  is  the  happiest  time 
in  my  life  when  I  look  back." 

Sylvia  laughed  tearfully  at  her  own  inconsis- 
tency, and  Enid  smiled. 

"Then  we  won't  consider  college  an  achieve- 
ment," she  said;  "we'll  consider  all  the  money 
you  've  spent  on  me  and  my  schemes  since  you  've 
known  me.  It  seems  to  me  most  people  would 
regard  the  establishment  of  a  creche  by  day  and 
a  reading-room  by  night  as  something  of  an 
achievement.  And  think  of  the  deserving  and 
undeserving  poor  that  I  have  trailed  up  to  your 
door  to  receive  food  and  five-dollar  bills!  " 

"No!  don't  make  me  think  of  that!"  whis- 
pered Sylvia.  "The  activity  of  other  people 
presses  on  me  like  a  mountain  sometimes  and 
stifles  me.  It  was  none  of  my  doing,  all  that;  it 
was  yours,  and  you  know  it.  The  world  is  so 
busy,  and  watching  it  drains  away  my  power  to 
do  anything." 

Enid  felt  desperate.  The  doctors  had  said  of 
Sylvia:  "There  is  no  organic  disease.  Take  her 
to  an  entirely  new  environment.  Try  to  rouse 
her  out  of  her  timidity  and  irresolution  without 
making  her  conscious  that  she  is  being  roused." 
But  that  was  the  difficulty.  Sylvia's  mind  was 
discouragingly  wide  awake  and  suspicious;  she 


JACQUES'   SISTER  75 

always  divined  when  you  were  trying  to  approach 
her  off  her  mental  guard.  This  abnormal  sensi- 
tiveness, which  was  in  the  beginning  one  of  the 
causes  of  her  nervous  prostration,  was  also,  in  its 
aggravated  form,  a  result  of  the  disease  and 
complicated  the  cure. 

"Get  her  interested  in  something  without  let- 
ting her  know  it,"  the  doctors  said.  "Get  her 
outside  of  her  own  mind.  If  she  could  think 
without  considering  the  fact  that  she  was  think- 
ing, she  would  be  on  the  road  to  recovery." 

And  Enid  left  her  lectures  and  classes,  resigned 
from  her  committees,  gave  up  her  scheme  of 
spending  the  winter  in  a  model  tenement,  and 
came,  as  Sylvia's  guest,  to  New  Orleans.  She 
had  an  unsatisfied  theory  that  friendship  must 
work  regeneration ;  she  did  not  call  it  regenera- 
tion when  she  thought  of  it,  because  she  would 
never  have  acknowledged,  even  to  herself,  that 
Sylvia  needed  regenerating,  but  that  was  what 
her  theory  meant  to  her.  And,  watching  the 
invalid  day  after  day,  her  heart  ached  as  she  re- 
cognized that  even  the  strong  friendship  between 
them  failed  to  touch  the  mainspring  of  Sylvia's 
life  and  set  her  will  in  motion.  Enid  rebelled 
against  this  thought,  which  was  hardly  a  thought 
as  yet,  —  only  an  undefined  dread.  She  did  not 
believe  it  was  going  to  be  true.  She  did  not  see 
how  it  ever  could  be  true.  She  refused  to  have 
it  so. 


76  DIANA   VICTEIX 

As  a  woman  advances  towards  thirty  unmar- 
ried, her  women-friendships  possess  more  and 
more  a  stability,  an  intensity,  which  were  lacking 
in  the  explosively  sentimental  intimacies  of  her 
youth;  they  are  to  her  instead  of  many  things. 
And  as  she  passes  into  the  region  of  the  middle- 
aged,  and  the  world  grows  more  and  more  work- 
aday, she  may  become  self-conceited  and  self- 
gratulatory  enough  about  her  work,  but  she  will 
thank  God  for  her  friends.  We  all  want  to 
mean  something  to  somebody,  and  the  friendships 
of  a  single  woman  satisfy  to  her  this  desire,  — 
except  in  certain  moods. 

Enid  averred  once  that,  with  a  married  woman, 
husband  and  children,  the  particular,  the  personal 
relationships,  must  come  first,  but  that  the  un- 
married woman,  who  consecrates  herself  to  a 
cause  deliberately,  gives  up  the  personal  claims; 
it  is  a  part  of  the  sacrifice.  Shortly  after  mak- 
ing this  statement,  Enid  came  South  with  Sylvia. 
She  sat  by  the  couch  now,  and  her  face  was  grave 
and  insistent. 

"You  know  I  shall  always  believe  that  you  can 
do  what  you  would,  if  you  will,"  she  said. 

Sylvia  moved  uneasily,  and  turned  her  eyes 
away;  she  did  not  contradict,  she  did  not  say 
anything.  And  Enid,  remorseful,  searched  her 
mind  for  a  change  of  subject  that  should  not  be 
too  obvious  and  abrupt.  Presently  she  said  in 
a  lighter  tone :  — 


JACQUES'   SISTER  77 

"I  fear  the  true  explanation  of  the  abortion  of 
Jeanne's  ambition  is  simply  that  she  is  swayed 
by  another  emotion  which  is  more  powerful. 
She  evidently  did  not  care  to  regard  Monsieur 
Jacques  in  the  light  of  a  brother,  did  you  notice  ? 
Such  a  very  uninteresting  person  to  fall  in  love 
with,  too !  Nice,  noisy,  self-sufficient  young  man, 
but  without  a  particle  of  romance  about  him." 

"Poor  Monsieur  Jacques!  "  said  Sylvia.  "So 
the  fiat  has  gone  forth  against  him,  and  he  is 
labeled  '  commonplace  '?  " 

"I  wonder  if  he  is  in  love  with  her,"  mused 
Enid;  "he'd  be  a  delightful  person  to  go  out 
and  buy  furniture  with;  he  would  always  be  able 
to  get  the  proper  per  cent.  off.  He  could  drive 
nails  and  hang  pictures  beautifully,  but  I  wonder 
if  he  can  make  love  ?  Dear  me !  what  is  happen- 
ing to  me  that  I  sit  up  here  in  broad  daylight, 
and  gossip  about  love  and  matrimony  like  a  sen- 
timental girl  of  seventeen,  when  I  ought  to  be 
reading  Socialism  ?  It  is  something  in  the  atmos- 
phere of  this  place.  I  shall  hold  you  responsible 
for  my  degeneration,  Sylvia  Bennett." 

Of  course  she  wished  the  next  minute  that  she 
hadn't  said  it.  She  was  wishing  twenty  times 
a  day  that  she  hadn't  said  things,  but  this  once 
she  was  relieved  from  embarrassing  protests  by 
a  hurry  and  flutter  along  the  gallery,  a  hasty 
knock,  and  the  entrance  of  Jeanne  with  cards. 

Jeanne  watched  the  reception  of  the  cards  with 


78  DIANA    VICTRIX 

the  excited  constraint  of  one  who  has  been  party 
to  the  lighting  of  a  fuse,  and  now  expects  a  sen- 
sation. 

"Miss  Campion,"  read  Sylvia  aloud,  without 
enthusiasm. 

"Miss  Campion,"  repeated  Enid,  gazing  at  her 
card  in  the  stolid  and  impartial  fashion  of  one 
who  knows  not  that  she  is  being  favored  of  gods 
and  men. 

"It  must  be  one  of  the  people  Cousin  Jessie 
wrote  about,"  said  Sylvia.  "She  insisted  on 
asking  two  or  three  to  call." 

"She  is  very  important,"  cried  Jeanne,  tum- 
bling over  her  words,  and  not  yet  realizing  that 
her  audience  had  failed  to  be  impressed.  "She 
is  very  important,  and  rich  and  beautiful.  She 
has  1'air  grande  dame,  tout  parfait.  Jacques  has 
dined  at  her  house.  She  does  not  marry,  but 
everybody  falls  in  love  with  her." 

Enid  felt  an  unworthy  desire  to  test  Jeanne  by 
asking  if  "everybody"  included  Jacques,  but  of 
course  she  did  not  do  so. 

"I  suppose  we  shall  have  to  go  down,"  said 
Sylvia  in  a  bored  tone,  sitting  up  on  the  lounge 
and  lifting  her  hands  to  her  hair. 

"I  suppose  so,"  acquiesced  Enid  with  a  sigh, 
and  the  leaves  of  the  fat  book  came  together  with 
an  impatient  whack. 

"Thank  you,  Jeanne." 


CHAPTER   VI 

ROMA   CAMPION   CALLS 

THEY  found  out  in  the  short  half  hour  of  her 
visit  that  she  was  a  worldly  woman,  ambitious, 
traveled,  fastidious,  and  discontented.  They 
suspected  that  she  was  ignorant  and  indifferent 
in  socialistic  and  industrial  matters,  and  that  she 
possessed  a  steady,  painstaking,  unintellectual 
mind.  They  knew  she  was,  in  many  ways,  the 
kind  of  woman  they  most  disapproved  of,  and 
they  fell  in  love  with  her  on  the  spot. 

On  her  own  part  she  was,  from  the  first,  at- 
tracted towards  them.  They  represented  the 
type  of  woman  which  she  respected  most,  knew 
least,  and  was  curious  to  know  better,  —  the  type 
upon  whose  model  she  felt  the  least  courage, 
and  it  may  be  the  least  intellectual  ability,  to 
conform  her  own  life.  Aside  from  this  general 
impression,  which  she  had  really  gained  before- 
hand from  the  letter  Sylvia's  cousin  had  written, 
she  recognized  that  they  were  also  interesting  as 
individuals.  She  was  quicker  at  understanding 
human  nature  than  she  was  at  understanding 
books,  —  that  is,  to  put  it  differently,  she  might 


80  DIANA    VICTEIX 

not  always  comprehend  a  joke,  but  she  could  com- 
prehend thoroughly  the  man  who  made  the  joke. 
It  was  chiefly  instinct,  of  course,  —  natural  incli- 
nation ;  otherwise  she  could  never  have  been  what 
she  was,  the  brilliant  society  woman,  —  as  the 
cant  phrase  has  it,  —  the  envy,  the  despair,  the 
adoration  of  her  world,  in  whatsoever  geogra- 
phical part  of  it  she  chose  to  shine.  But  her 
insight  was  partly  due  to  training  as  well:  she 
had  been  in  the  world,  and,  to  a  considerable 
extent,  of  the  world,  all  her  life ;  whereas  she  had 
been  taught  to  use  books  as  polite  accessories  of 
the  social  art,  —  well-bred  means  of  passing  the 
time  and  of  making  conversation. 

Enid  and  Sylvia  had  never  before  believed 
that  they  could  have  anything  in  common  with 
the  self-confessed  society  woman.  Occasionally, 
in  their  youth,  and  after  their  relatives  had  laid 
before  them,  with  more  than  ordinary  emphasis, 
the  social  exigencies  of  that  station  in  life  to 
which  they  were  called,  they  would  reluctantly 
array  themselves  and  sally  forth  in  weariness  and 
trepidation  of  spirit  to  what  they  were  pleased  to 
designate  contemptuously  as  "a  function;  "  but 
these  concessions  to  family  tradition  were  few, 
and  for  days  after  their  occurrence  they  dark- 
ened, as  with  a  nightmare  hideousness,  the  minds 
of  Enid  and  Sylvia.  For  the  words  "sociable" 
and  "socialistic"  are  not  synonymous.  Of  late 
years,  however,  "  the  function"  —  which,  in  bald 


ROMA   CAMPION   CALLS  81 

language,  meant  to  them  anxious  patronage  by 
a  busy  hostess,  palpable  neglect  on  the  part  of 
the  young  male  contingent,  and  indifference,  or 
half -amused  contempt  from  the  popular  girls  — 
had  abated  its  terrors.  This  was  due,  as  far  as 
Sylvia  was  concerned,  to  the  excuse  which  her 
ill-health  afforded  her  for  refusing  invitations, 
and,  in  the  case  of  Enid,  to  her  gradual  recog- 
nition and  adoption  by  the  sprinkling  of  the 
learned  and  the  lionized  who  saw  fit  to  frequent, 
and  even  at  times  to  enjoy,  the  entertainments 
provided  by  their  well-meaning  but  less  enlight- 
ened brethren.  Society  had  therefore  become 
for  both  women  an  institution  which  they  were 
willing  to  tolerate,  but  not  to  admire ;  and,  while 
they  continued  to  evince  a  languid  and  somewhat 
melancholy  interest  in  those  of  their  college 
friends  who  had  drifted  into  this  orthodox  way 
of  life,  they  fought  shy  of  society  women  in 
general. 

To-day,  however,  they  had  talked  to  one  of 
these  women  for  half  an  hour  with  animated 
friendliness  and  distinct  enjoyment.  The  talk 
had  been  of  that  rapid,  desultory  sort  which 
results  upon  a  first  meeting  between  people  who 
feel  immediate  friendliness  for  one  another,  and 
which  is  like  nothing  so  much  as  a  continuous 
striking  of  sparks.  The  transition  from  subject 
to  subject  is  swift  and  unconscious;  the  minds 
click  against  each  other  at  every  instant  and 


82  DIANA    VICTEIX 

pour  forth  their  thoughts  breathlessly,  in  their 
haste  to  prove  affinity  upon  as  many  points  as 
possible,  and  thereby  justify  to  themselves  this 
sudden  and  incautious  surrender  to  impulse.  A 
great  deal  of  conversation  can  be  made  in  half 
an  hour,  if  there  are  no  pauses.  Moreover,  Enid, 
for  one,  had,  among  the  reporters  who  tried  to 
take  down  her  lectures,  a  reputation  for  talking 
with  exceptional  rapidity. 

From  the  weather  the  talk  floated  on  to  the 
town  itself;  from  the  town  to  its  society,  to 
society  in  general;  then,  of  course,  — for  was  not 
Enid  there?  —  to  the  regeneration  of  society,  to 
the  literary  propaganda  on  social  questions,  to 
literature  itself,  to  literary  people,  to  amateur- 
ism, to  dilettanteism,  and  so  back  to  society. 
Just  where  the  transitions  came,  no  one  stopped 
to  consider. 

It  was  Roma  Campion  who,  in  the  mysterious 
fashion  best  known  to  herself,  eliminated  at  the 
outset  all  stiffness,  all  constraint,  from  the  inter- 
view, saying  her  tentative  and  tactful  social  no- 
things in  her  unobtrusive,  well-bred  voice,  and 
looking  at  her  hearer  straight  the  while  with 
deference  and  interest.  Long  afterwards  Enid 
concluded  that  the  unquenchable  sincerity  look- 
ing out  of  this  worldly  woman's  eyes  was  the 
beginning  and  the  end  of  the  fascination.  But 
that  first  day  Enid  did  not  stop  to  analyze  the 
fascination;  she  caught  up  the  small-talk  at  its 


ROMA   CAMPION   CALLS  83 

first  rebound,  and  carried  it  forward  in  a  flood  of 
eloquence,  transformed  and  dignified. 

And  Sylvia,  vibrating  beside  her,  —  Sylvia,  the 
shy,  the  reserved,  the  silent,  —  interrupted  again 
and  again,  speaking  almost  eagerly.  At  the  last 
the  right  of  speech  drifted  back  to  Miss  Cam- 
pion, and  she  invited  the  two  to  dine  with  her 
and  go  to  the  opera  the  next  week,  and,  standing 
at  the  parlor  door,  she  railed  a  little,  albeit  with 
that  restraint  and  coolness  which  the  occasion 
required,  against  the  dullness  and  self-compla- 
cency of  her  native  town.  And  as  they  stood  on 
the  shallow  stairs  behind  the  open  glass  door  and 
watched  her  go  down  the  passage  to  her  carriage, 
which  all  this  while  had  been  quite  a  serious 
obstacle  in  the  narrow  street,  Enid  and  Sylvia 
felt  for  this  woman,  slightly  older  than  them- 
selves and  already  scarred  and  embittered  by  the 
experience  of  her  own  folly,  a  tenderness  and 
enthusiasm  which  their  judgment  told  them  was 
wholly  out  of  proportion  to  their  knowledge  of 
her  character  and  her  deserts. 

And  she,  leaning  back  among  her  cushions, 
was  less  bored  by  life  than  she  had  been  since 
she  left  Paris  in  October.  Her  world  would 
have  been  slow  to  acknowledge  that  Roma  Cam- 
pion was  capable  of  enthusiasms;  it  would  have 
laughed  at  even  a  hint  of  such  a  thing;  it  would 
have  changed  "enthusiasms  "  into  "fads,"  and  felt 
that  it  was  displaying  considerable  knowledge  of 


84  DIANA    VICTE1X 

human  nature.  But  Miss  Campion  was  unusually 
preoccupied  as  she  drove  home.  She  made  no 
attempt  to  recognize  acquaintances,  and  this  was 
not  her  custom.  She  did  not  even  bow  to  Curtis 
Baird  as  he  passed  her,  swinging  along  beside 
young  Dumarais,  with  whom  he  was  going  home 
to  dine  en  famille,  and  she  had  been  peculiarly 
gracious  to  Curtis  Baird  ever  since  he  had  pre- 
sented his  letter  of  introduction. 

"My  lady  is  in  a  brown  study,"  he  thought, 
but  he  said  nothing,  as  Jacques  was  talking  of 
other  things. 

The  Dumarais'  dinner-table  was  a  noisy  one 
that  day.  Jacques,  by  some  more  than  usually 
clever  business  transaction,  had  been  able  to  make 
himself  appear  particularly  valuable  in  the  eyes 
of  his  firm ;  and  the  knowledge  that  he  could,  if 
he  chose,  assert  his  independence  and  withdraw 
altogether  on  the  first  of  January  filled  his  soul 
with  glee. 

"And  did  you  go  to  the  cathedral?  "  he  asked 
Enid,  his  gray  eyes  and  white  teeth  flashing  a 
charming  smile. 

He  liked  Enid.  She  did  not  burden  him  with 
a  sense  of  responsibility.  It  was  still  an  aston- 
ishment to  him  that  she  obviously  never  expected 
him  to  make  an  effort  to  entertain  her,  but  it 
was  a  relief  as  well.  He  did  not  know  that  he 
entirely  approved  this  frank  though  unspoken 
avowal  that  the  attentions  of  his  sex  were  matters 


ROMA   CAMPION  CALLS  85 

of  complete  indifference  to  her ;  it  was  not  quite 
in  accord  with  his  ideas  of  feminine  modesty; 
but,  after  all,  it  was  convenient  when  a  man 
came  home  tired  and  hungry  after  a  hard  day's 
work. 

"How  have  you  amused  yourself?  "  he  contin- 
ued, prolonging  his  friendly  smile. 

"We  did  not  go  to  the  cathedral  this  time," 
she  answered;  "we  waited  for  a  brighter  day. 
Your  sister  took  us  to  the  place  where  the  Ital- 
ians were  murdered,  Congo  Square,  —  was  it 
Rampart  Street?" 

"'Murdered'  is  good!"  observed  Jacques, 
turning  upon  Enid  a  mocking  but  provokingly 
genial  countenance. 

He  irritated  her,  he  was  -always  so  self-confi- 
dent. Sylvia  threw  her  a  timid,  warning  glance 
across  the  table;  and  Curtis  Baird  let  his  chin 
sink  against  his  throat,  and  looked  out  at  her 
smilingly  from  under  his  drooped  eyelids. 

"What  term  would  you  substitute?"  inquired 
Enid. 

"When  a  band  of  ruffians  has  murdered  the 
chief  of  police,  citizens  find  themselves  looking 
at  law  and  order  from  a  new  point  of  view.  I 
should  say  '  righteously  executed  ' !  "  Jacques  de- 
clared with  stern  emphasis.  His  chin  was  very 
square. 

"Oh,  —  come,  —  now,  —  Dumarais !  you  would 
n't,  —  would  you?  "  interrupted  Mr.  Baird  in  the 


86  DIANA    VICTRIX 

quietest  of  slow,  conversational  tones.  "  Think 
of  the  time  it  takes  —  to  say  —  all  —  that,  '  right- 
eously —  exe-cut-ed  ' !  Invent  something  shorter, 

—  can't  you?     Think  what  it  would  mean — to 

—  do  —  all  —  that,   if  a  man  had  —  an  impedi- 
ment in  his  speech." 

"Perhaps  you  would  prefer  '  murdered  '  also?  " 
said  Jacques,  lifting  his  eyebrows  to  the  height 
of  their  interrogatory  possibilities,  and  speaking 
with  a  good-nature  that  might  have  been  consid- 
ered alarmingly  crisp. 

"No, — I  shouldn't,"  replied  Baird  reflec- 
tively ;  "it  —  is  n't  a  —  pretty  —  word,  — '  mur- 
dered. '  I  should  • —  feel  —  quite  —  grateful  — 
on  behalf  of  the  —  language,  if  you  —  could  — 
supply  —  a  better  one." 

Mr.  Baird 's  drawl  was  by  no  means  the  least 
of  his  many  attractions,  ladies  said,  and  they 
usually  added  that  he  had  affected  it  so  long,  it 
had  ceased  to  be  an  affectation.  His  words  were 
like  a  string  of  disconnected  freight-cars  left  to 
slide  along  a  track  through  their  own  momentum, 
and  coupling  at  unexpected  intervals. 

"No!  but  seriously,  you  know,"  began  Jacques, 
"it  wasn't  murder.  They  were  guilt}r,  and  they 
knew  it,  and  everybody  knew  it,  and  they  de- 
served all  they  got.  Why!  they  attacked  that 
man  from  behind! " 

"Then  why  did  the  law  acquit  them?"  It 
was  Enid  this  time,  speaking  indignantly. 


EOMA   CAMPION   CALLS  87 

"All!  —  well!"  Jacques'  tone  and  shrug 
implied  that,  if  you  were  going  to  ask  him  to 
justify  the  idiosyncrasies  of  the  law,  of  course 
there  was  no  use  carrying  the  discussion  any 
farther. 

"You  feel  that  the  action  was  justifiable,  then  ?  " 
Enid  resumed  after  a  pause,  which  had  been  elo- 
quent of  disapproval. 

"Justifiable!"  exclaimed  Jacques.  He  was 
not  angry,  you  know;  he  was  only  French. 
"Justifiable!  Well,  I  should  rather  think! 
Why,  my  dear  young  lady,  there  was  n't  a  man 
in  this  town  that  would  have  dared  to  call  his 
soul  his  own  twenty -four  hours  afterwards  if  we 
hadn't  done  it.  The  beggars  were  so  elated, 
they  were  ready  to  murder  us  in  our  beds  without 
compunction,  every  mother's  son  of  us!  Yes,  I 
mean  it!"  he  continued,  smiling  cheerfully  once 
more  in  response  to  Enid's  unspoken  skepticism. 

"Then  I  don't  see,  if  everybody  knew  they 
were  guilty,  why  they  didn't  hang  them,"  she 
said. 

"That's  just  what  we  did  do,  as  soon  as  we 
got  a  chance!  "  vociferated  Jacques.  "We  took 
them  out  and  shot  them  and  strung  them  up, 
and  then  we  went  home." 

"But  it  wasn't  law,"  insisted  Enid. 

"Maybe  it  wasn't,"  retorted  Jacques,  "but  it 
was  justice.  Have  I  got  to  stand  by  a  law  when 
it  is  a  rotten  law?  Have  I  got  to  submit  to  a 


88  DIANA    VICTEIX 

court  decision  that's  bought  up  and  paid  for? 
Have  I  got  to  bow  down  to  a  department  of  judi- 
ciary that 's  so  bribed  and  corrupted  and  intimi- 
dated it  hasn't  a  leg  of  its  own  to  stand  on? 
No !  because,  if  I  have,  I  '11  move  out !  When  a 
law  can't  be  enforced,  something  's  wrong,  and 
it 's  time  for  a  change.  All  change  comes  as  an 
upsetting  of  law.  There  never  was  a  change  yet 
that  wasn't  called  unlawful  by  the  old  fogies. 
But  are  we  all  to  stand  still  on  that  account,  and 
never  advance?  Are  we  to  stifle  in  our  own  cor- 
ruption? I  say  there  's  something  higher  in  this 
world  than  what  we  call  law !  " 

He  paused,  stared  fiercely  at  his  antagonist, 
and  then,  with  a  sudden  change  of  expression, 
beamed  upon  her  indulgently. 

"I  beg  your  pardon!"  he  said  heartily,  half 
laughing;  "I  forgot  I  wasn't  talking  to  a  man. 
I  pounded  it  down  rather  hard,  but  you  see,  not 
being  a  conservative  myself,  I  don't  look  at 
things  in  just  your  way." 

To  have  her  own  radical  generalizations  thus 
cast  upon  her  head,  and  to  be  herself  catalogued 
as  a  conservative,  was  a  new  experience  for  Enid, 
and  it  took  her  a  moment  to  rally  from  the  shock. 

"You'll  —  find  him  an  —  awful  radical,  Miss 
Spenser,"  said  Baird  slowly,  with  an  alluring 
twinkle  under  his  eyelashes;  "regular  —  fire-eater 
—  Jacques  is." 

Down  at  the  end  of    the  table   old  Monsieur 


ROMA   CAMPION   CALLS  89 

Dumarais  turned  his  ear  towards  the  speaker 
with  a  suspicious  frown,  but  Enid  only  half  heard 
the  words,  and  Jacques  did  not  see  the  twinkle. 

"Aren't  your  assertions  a  little  beside  the 
question,  Mr.  Dumarais?"  Enid  had  gathered 
together  her  scattered  senses  and  returned  to  the 
charge.  "You  mistake  me  when  you  call  me  a 
conservative.  I,  too,  believe  what  you  have  just 
said  about  change  and  bad  laws.  But  in  this 
case  it  does  not  seem  to  have  been  the  law  which 
was  at  fault.  If  the  law  had  been  kept,  there 
would  have  been  no  disturbance,  at  least  as  I  see 
it ;  but  your  citizens  first  broke  the  law  by  lend- 
ing themselves  to  bribery  and  intimidation,  and 
then  broke  it  again  by  having  resource  to  mob 
rule  and  bloodshed.  That  appears  to  me  to  be 
the  case  by  your  own  presentation  of  the  facts." 

"And  because  we  've  made  one  mistake,  you  'd 
have  us  keep  right  on  and  make  another?  "  said 
Jacques.  "Because  we  were  weak  enough,  some 
of  us,  to  be  bribed  to  bring  in  a  verdict  of  not 
guilty,  when  we  knew  we  were  perjuring  our- 
selves, you  'd  have  the  rest  of  us,  who  were  n't 
such  cowards,  calmly  sit  down  and  let  several 
murderers  be  turned  loose  on  the  community?  " 

"I  do  not  see  but  that  it  would  have  been  per- 
fectly just  for  you  to  have  suffered  the  conse- 
quences of  that  first  mistake."  Enid  spoke  with 
deliberation,  because  she  was  not  altogether  sure 
of  herself. 


90  DIANA    V1CTRIX 

"And  how  about  the  murderers  suffering  for 
their  behavior?"  Jacques  demanded. 

"Conscience,    you    know,    Dumarais, — don't 
forget  the  —  power  —  of  conscience,"  said  Baird, 
with  elaborate  solemnity.      "Remorse, — that  — 
sort  of  —  thing.     Great  factor,  —  conscience !  " 

"Great  humbug!  "  retorted  Jacques. 

"It  seems  to  me,  by  that  first  mistake  you 
voluntarily  abandon  the  right  to  deal  with  the 
murderers,"  said  Enid. 

"Well,  as  a  matter  of  theory,  my  dear  lady, 
perhaps  we  do,  but  you  '11  find  this  world  is  n't 
all  a  matter  of  theory;  and  practical  necessity 
isn't  going  to  let  any  man  see  the  feasibility  of 
having  a  murderer  running  around  the  streets, 
no  matter  how  many  mistakes  he  has  made  in 
letting  that  murderer  get  there.  We  did  it 
then,  and  we  'd  do  it  again  to-morrow,  every  man 
of  us,  and  not  turn  a  hair." 

Jacques,  having  thus  strangled  the  argument 
by  violence,  in  this  brutal  appeal  to  fact,  laid  his 
knife  and  fork  parallel  upon  his  plate  and  gazed 
around  the  table  with  a  complacent  air  of  victory. 
He  thought  he  had  gained  his  point,  as  no  doubt 
he  had  to  a  certain  extent,  if  silence  can  be  called 
the  end  of  an  argument.  And  Enid,  moved  by 
the  distress  in  Sylvia's  eyes,  let  him  think  so. 

"But  it  was  an  impressive  sight!"  he  said. 
Having  established  the  validity  of  his  case,  to  his 
own  satisfaction,  he  was  now  ready  to  describe 


ROMA   CAMPION   CALLS  91 

it  in  its  dramatic  character  as  an  incident  in  his- 
tory. "I  wasn't  there  when  they  did  the  kill- 
ing"- 

"Come,  —  come,  —  Dumarais,  —  stand  up  — 
for  your  colors!  Don't  be  timid,  — man,  — 
you're  among  friends!"  said  Baird,  with  the 
inevitable  drawl.  "I  have  n't  found  a  fellow  — 
yet  —  who  was  there  —  at  the  —  time  —  of  the  — 
killing." 

"Well,  I  wasn't,  this  time!  No  fooling, 
Baird.  I  know  it 's  not  often  I  'm  not  on  hand, 
but  this  is  honest  truth." 

Mr.  Baird  persisted  in  looking  incredulous. 

"I  got  there  just  about  ten  minutes  after  it 
was  done,  and  you  may  not  believe  it,  but  there 
was  hardly  any  one  left  around  that  place.  They 
dispersed  like  magic.  One  of  the  Italians  was 
hanging  against  a  tree,  dead.  He  had  long  hair, 
and,  I  give  you  my  word,  that  hair  was  standing 
up  all  over  his  head,  and  the  ends  were  waving 
to  and  fro  in  the  wind.  It  was  an  awful  sight!" 

A  shiver  went  around  the  table. 

"Were  you  there?"  asked  Sylvia  of  Jocelin, 
who  sat  next  to  her  and  attended  to  her  wants 
assiduously,  but  was  not  talkative. 

"No,  mademoiselle,"  he  answered,  "I  was  not 
here  last  winter,  last  year." 

"Why  is  he  so  silent?"  she  thought;  "is  he 
timid,  or  unhappy?" 

He   had  made  a  few  courteous   responses   to 


92  DIANA    VICTRIX 

questions  at  the  beginning  of  the  meal,  but  had 
remained  quiet  during  the  discussion,  attentive, 
for  the  most  part,  to  his  plate,  but  glancing  up 
with  some  show  of  interest  when  Enid's  remarks 
had  proved  particularly  exasperating  to  his  step- 
brother. Sylvia  found  him  more  difficult  of 
approach  than  the  other  members  of  the  family. 
Her  own  timidity  kept  her  from  at  once  breaking 
down  the  barrier  of  reverent  silence  behind  which 
he  persistently  intrenched  himself.  His  position 
in  the  household  puzzled  her,  for  whereas  Jacques 
departed  each  morning  punctually  at  half  past 
eight,  and  was  no  more  seen  till  dinner-time, 
Jocelin  came  and  went  irregularly.  Sometimes 
at  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  he  was  playing  an 
accompaniment  on  the  piano  in  the  parlor,  and 
at  any  time  of  day  he  might  be  found  walking 
about  the  courtyard  smoking  a  cigarette.  Sun- 
day morning  Sylvia  inferred  from  his  appearance 
that  he  had  been  out  before  breakfast,  and  he 
ate  rapidly,  excused  himself  before  the  meal  was 
over,  and  went  out  again.  Jeanne  had  said, 
"This  is  Jocelin 's  busy  day,"  and  madame  had 
looked  less  careworn  than  she  usually  did  when 
Jocelin  had  engagements  which  took  him  away 
from  the  house. 

Sylvia  had  never  before  met  any  man  who  was 
so  considerate  of  her  comfort.  Now  it  was  a 
door  he  closed ;  again  he  was  suggesting  that  she 
might  enjoy  the  fire  more  if  she  sat  in  this  other 


ROMA   CAMPION   CALLS  93 

chair.  So  deft  was  he  in  his  unobtrusiveness 
that  even  Enid,  the  watchful,  did  not  notice 
what  he  was  about.  But  Sylvia  could  not  fail  to 
see,  since  the  little  attentions  were  meant  for  her. 
There  was  a  personal  and  caressing  quality  in  his 
manner  of  setting  a  chair  for  her  which  was  as 
insistent  in  its  demand  for  recognition  as  were 
his  gentleness  and  the  lonely  look  in  his  eyes. 

The  dessert  was  on  the  table,  and  Jacques  was 
still  describing  the  putting  down  of  the  Italians. 

"That  afternoon  and  the  next  day  they  were 
getting  out  of  town  like  ants  pouring  out  of  an 
ant-hill.  When  they  couldn't  afford  to  go  by 
train,  they  walked  along  the  railroad  tracks. 
They  say  it  was  a  sight  to  see  them  back  of  town. 
It  was  the  only  thing  to  do,  and  we  did  it! "  he 
ended,  as  if  finally  closing  the  subject. 

Enid  remained  silent.  Another  item  came  to 
Jacques'  mind,  and  he  began  again:  — 

"They  say  that  women,  ladies  even,  went  down 
after  it  was  over,  to  see  the  place,  and,  if  possi- 
ble, the  men  before  they  were  taken  down." 

"Oh,  no!  "  cried  Sylvia;  "not  ladies!  " 

"I  don't  know,"  returned  Jacques  with  a  shrug; 
"I  only  heard.  Curiosity  is  by  no  means  the 
least  charming  characteristic  of  your  sex,  made- 
moiselle. I  did  not  let  Jeanne  go,  for  example, 
but  it  was  said  they  even  went  down  in  car- 
riages." 

He  dwelt  on  his  information  with  a  teasing 


94  DIANA    VICTEIX 

smile,  and  spoke  in  a  politely  bantering  tone. 
He  saw  that  the  remarks  made  his  guests  indig- 
nant, and,  as  one  of  them  had  pushed  him  rather 
closely  in  the  foregoing  argument,  he  was  not 
sorry  to  tease  her  a  little. 

The  word  "carriages"  brought  to  Enid's  mind 
Miss  Campion's  well-appointed  vehicle.  Curtis 
Baird  watched  her,  despite  his  assumption  of 
indifference,  with  some  interest.  This  was  an 
excellent  opportunity  for  her  to  turn  Jacques' 
implications  about  the  vulgar  curiosity  of  women 
in  general  against  the  women  of  his  own  city  in 
particular.  Would  she  see  it?  If  she  did,  she 
ignored  it,  at  least  directly. 

"I  met  one  of  your  New  Orleans  women  to-day 
whom  I  should  not  think  likely  to  do  such  a 
thing,"  she  said  quietly. 

She  was  feeling  that  her  own  impetuous  liking 
for  the  woman  would  be  appropriately  disciplined 
if  it  should  transpire  that  she  could  do  such  a 
thing,  after  all. 

"And  may  I  ask  who  that  was?  "  said  Jacques 
cordially. 

Baird  lifted  his  chin  and  opened  his  eyes  to 
their  ordinary  width  this  time,  as  he  looked  at 
Enid.  He  already  knew  who  it  was. 

"Her  name  is  very  odd  and  pretty,"  she  re- 
plied; "Miss  Roma  Campion." 

"Ah!"  said  Jacques.  He  turned  and  looked 
full  upon  her  for  a  moment,  with  more  of  interest 


ROMA   CAMPION   CALLS  95 

than  he  had  ever  shown.  "Is  that  so?"  he 
added,  in  a  tone  that  seemed  to  congratulate  her ; 
"you  are  fortunate!  " 

"  And  was  Miss  —  Campion  —  one  of  those  — 
who  went  —  down   to  —  to   see  the  —  remains?" 
inquired  Baird,    with  more  than   his  customary 
deliberation. 

Jacques  threw  back  his  head  with  a  chuckle. 

"She  wasn't  here  at  the  time,"  he  said;  "it 
was  early  in  the  fall  when  it  happened,  you  know ; 
but  I  should  n't  venture  to  be  certain  of  what 
she  might  have  done  if  she  had  been  here.  It 
wouldn't  be  safe." 

Mr.  Baird  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  smiled. 

"  By  the  way, "  Jacques  continued,  "  I  should  n't 
wonder  if  she  passed  us  coming  from  here  as  we 
were  on  our  way  down  to  dinner.  Seems  to  me 
I  remember  her  carriage.  Did  you  notice?" 

"Yes,  — I  noticed,"  said  Baird. 

"I  was  singing  in  the  parlor,"  said  Jeanne 
eagerly,  "and  I  did  not  hear  her  come  in,  and 
as  I  got  up  to  go  away  she  spoke  to  me." 

"What  did  she  say?"  asked  Jacques. 

"  She  said,"  —  Jeanne  was  blushing  in  the  pret- 
tiest way  imaginable,  —  "she  said,  '  I  am  sorry  I 
interrupted  your  song.  You  must  tell  Mr.  Du- 
marais  that  I  do  not  feel  inclined  to  pardon  him 
for  not  telling  me  he  had  a  sister  who  could  give 
such  pleasure  by  her  singing.'  Then  she  held 
out  her  hand  and  looked  at  me,  —  but  she  is 


96  DIANA    VICTRIX 

adorable,  yes!  She  kept  my  hand  a  moment  and 
said,  '  I  wonder  how  it  is  that  I  have  never  seen 
your  face?  I  know  I  have  not,  for  I  must  have 
remembered  it. ' ' 

"Ah,  ha! "  cried  Jacques.  He  looked  im- 
mensely pleased. 

"And  I  told  her,  '  I  am  just  out  this  winter; 
that  may  be  the  reason. '  And  she  said,  '  Really !  ' 
as  if  —  as  if  it  were  the  most  interesting  news. 
Is  she  not  beautiful?  And  then  she  said,  '  I 
hope  it  will  be  a  happy  winter;  I  am  quite  sure 
it  will  be.'  Ah,  but  I  wished  to  embrace  her!  " 

Curtis  Baird's  eyes  emitted  a  flash,  and  then 
became  once  more  serenely  blue  and  smiling. 

"You  may  embrace  me  instead,  bebe,"  laughed 
Jacques;  "you  will  find  me  twice  as  apprecia- 
tive." 

"Decidedly  he  is  not  in  love  with  Jeanne," 
thought  Enid;  and  with  much  inconsistency,  con- 
sidering her  heroic  efforts  of  the  afternoon,  she 
added,  "poor  little  thing!  " 

"I  went  to  school  with  her  two  little  sisters 
one  year,"  said  Jeanne,  "before  they  went  away 
to  France  to  be  finished.  They  were  not  very 
nice.  They  are  to  come  out  together  next  year ; 
she  told  me  that,  too." 

The  invitation  to  the  opera  was  mentioned 
during  the  evening,  and  by  degrees  it  dawned 
upon  Enid  and  Sylvia  that,  for  some  reason,  as 
yet  but  dimly  appreciated  by  themselves,  they 


ROMA    CAMPION    CALLS  97 

were  being  regarded  as  more  than  ordinarily 
blessed  among  mortals.  As  individuals  they  had 
manifestly  increased  in  importance  within  the 
past  twelve  hours. 

Enid  was  not  accustomed  to  owing  her  impor- 
tance to  any  one  but  herself.  She  had  not  real- 
ized before  how  habituated  she  had  become  to 
the  smile  of  intelligence  which  at  home  was  cer- 
tain to  greet  the  mention  of  her  name.  The  old, 
familiar  "Miss  Enid  Spenser?  Ah,  yes!  we  all 
know  Miss  Spenser  through  her  work,  —  I  am 
most  happy,"  etc.,  no  longer  sounded  in  her  ears. 
There  was  a  blank  where  this  had  been,  and  Enid 
was  disconcerted  to  find  herself  noticing  this 
blank,  nay,  even  feeling  amazement  that  it  should 
be  there.  She  held  herself  at  arm's  length  from 
herself  and  taunted  her  own  vanity,  but  with  vexa- 
tion of  spirit.  Even  this  clever  Mr.  Baird,  who 
came  from  New  York,  was  apparently  at  a  loss  just/ 
how  to  place  her.  His  manner  indicated  that  he 
felt  she  had  done  something,  but  he  was  waiting 
to  find  out  what  that  something  was.  This  nega- 
tive sort  of  ignorance  of  her  position,  however, 
she  could  endure,  scorning  herself  for  even  notic- 
ing it.  But  to  be  definitely  relegated  to  oblivion, 
as  a  conservative,  was  harder  to  bear ;  and  to  be 
lifted  into  importance  through  the  patronage  of 
a  woman,  whose  highest  achievements  consisted 
in  dressing  well  and  bruising  men's  hearts,  was 
hardest  of  all.  She  was  filled  with  a  sharp  aston- 


98  DIANA    V1CTKIX 

ishment,  and  the  sense  that  the  situation  was  a 
humorous  one  did  not  afford  her  the  consolation 
which  she  felt  that  it  ought. 

The  next  day  Jacques  announced  that  he,  too, 
had  received  an  invitation  to  dine  with  Miss 
Campion  and  go  to  the  opera  afterwards. 

"And  so  has  Baird;  so  we  shall  be  a  jolly 
party.  Do  you  know  I  really  think  Baird  is 
quite  gone  in  that  direction?  He  calls  as  much 
as  once  a  week,  and  she  rather  singles  him  out. 
I  've  warned  him,  but  of  course  it 's  no  use.  I 
suppose,  if  I  were  in  love  with  a  lovely  woman, 
I  'd  behave  just  as  idiotically  as  the  rest  of  them." 

Jacques  swelled  his  chest,  and  pursed  his  lips 
sarcastically.  It  was  something  for  a  young  man 
of  no  fortune  to  be  smiled  upon  by  a  woman  of 
position  and  discrimination.  It  was  something, 
also,  to  have  been  able  to  endure  the  smile  with- 
out succumbing  to  its  fascination.  Jacques  was 
excusable  in  feeling  that  he  had  cause  to  con- 
gratulate himself. 

"I'll  see  what  I  can  do  for  Jeanne,"  he 
thought.  "It  might  be  a  very  good  thing." 

As  it  happened,  however,  matters  arranged 
themselves  without  Jacques'  assistance.  Sylvia 
had  several  days  of  headache  and  weakness,  and 
was  afraid  to  use  up  her  strength  by  going  to 
anything  so  wearisome  as  a  dinner,  or  so  exciting 
as  the  opera.  Enid,  therefore,  wrote  regretting 
for  her  and  explaining  the  situation ;  and  a  note 


ROMA    CAMPION   CALLS  99 

at  once  came  to  Jacques  from  Miss  Campion, 
asking  him  if  he  could  bring  his  sister,  and  put- 
ting the  matter  in  the  light  of  a  favor,  since 
otherwise  her  dinner  must  be  one-sided.  There 
were  also  some  graceful  expressions  of  pleasure 
in  having  already  met  Jeanne  and  heard  her  sing. 
Nothing  could  have  been  more  opportune  for  the 
little  sister. 

"  Oh,  I  am  sorry  you  cannot  go !  —  so  very 
sorry!"  Jeanne  cried  sympathetically  to  Sylvia. 
"But  aren't  you  glad  she  has  invited  me,  — oh, 
are  you  not?"  She  executed  an  impromptu 
dance  on  the  green  and  red  hearth-rug  as  she 
said  it. 

"Now,  my  child,"  said  Jacques,  with  enthusi- 
asm, "live  up  to  this,  and  you  will  be  the  envy 
of  all  the  girls." 

Jeanne  laughed  without  a  particle  of  malice  in 
her  mind  against  those  other  girls.  To  have 
pleased  Jacques  was  quite  enough  to  make  any 
one  happy,  —  at  least  so  she  thought. 

"If  you  will  allow  me,"  Jocelin  ventured  to 
say  on  the  night  before  the  eventful  one,  when 
the  others  were  commiserating  Sylvia,  and  won- 
dering if  it  might  not  have  been  possible  for  her 
to  go,  after  all,  —  "  if  you  will  allow  me,  Miss  Ben- 
nett, I  should  be  glad  to  go  over  the  opera  music 
to-morrow  night,  if  it  would  amuse  you?  And 
you  could  follow  what  they  also  are  enjoying." 

"Yes,  he's  a  dear!"  Enid  assented  the  next 


100  DIANA    VICTEIX 

evening  as  she  bade  Sylvia  good-by;  "and  it  will 
be  nice  to  know  you  are  hearing  the  same  things. 
I  shall  think  of  it  as  I  listen.  But  you  mustn't 
let  him  keep  you  up  too  late.  I  've  noticed  that 
when  he  begins,  he  never  seems  to  know  when  to 
stop." 


CHAPTER  VII 

SYLVIA  GOES  TO  THE  OPERA 

THROUGHOUT  the  day,  Sylvia  and  Jocelin  had 
made  a  little  joke  of  their  going  to  the  opera  that 
evening;  and  when  Sylvia  came  down  to  dinner 
in  a  pearl-gray  gown  with  the  old  lace  that  had 
been  her  mother's,  soft  and  full  and  high  about 
her  throat,  she  found  at  her  place  three  pale 
pink  roses  which  Jocelin  had  gathered  from  the 
rosebush  in  the  courtyard.  "For  if  mademoi- 
selle goes  to  the  opera,  assuredly  she  must  have 
flowers,"  he  said. 

Nor  was  the  dinner  as  dull  an  affair  as  one 
might  have  imagined  it  must  be,  with  Jacques 
the  noisy,  and  Enid  the  clever,  and  Jeanne  the 
merry,  away.  Ah,  no!  for  Monsieur  Dumarais 
was  easily  led  to  talk  of  his  favorites,  Hugo,  and 
Sully  Prudhomme,  and  Leconte  de  Lisle.  And 
he  was  one  who  talked  with  the  taste  of  the  poets' 
thoughts  upon  his  lips.  Madame,  too,  had  made 
a  little  fete,  and  the  dinner  was  excellent.  It 
was  Jocelin  who  called  attention  to  the  fact  that 
no  one  but  maman  could  have  imparted  such  a 
delicious  flavor  to  the  sauce  piquante,  and  by  the 


102  DIANA    VICTR1X 

time  the  dessert  was  placed  on  the  table  maman's 
strawberry  gelatine  was  not  more  rosy  or  unsta- 
ble than  she. 

After  the  coffee,  monsieur  went  away  to  smoke 
his  cigar  in  his  own  little  study,  whose  walls  were 
lined  with  the  beloved  books  that  he  should  never 
read  again.  He  used  to  pass  his  hands  over  the 
backs  of  them  on  the  shelves,  as  one  passes  one's 
hand  over  the  hair  of  a  child.  Sometimes,  of  an 
evening,  he  would  take  down  a  book  and  put  it 
back  again  softly,  now  this  one,  now  that  one, 
saying  to  himself  in  a  meditative  whisper :  — 

"This  is  '  Legendes  des  Siecles, '  second  vol- 
ume ;  this  is  de  Musset,  '  Les  Drames. ' ' 

Sometimes  he  would  sit  in  his  armchair  for  an 
hour  or  more  with  a  book  laid  open  upon  his 
knee,  and  his  cigar  held  carefully  out  on  one 
side,  so  that  no  ashes  nor  sparks  should  drop  and 
soil  or  burn  the  precious  pages.  Not  a  speck  of 
dust  was  allowed  to  rest  upon  those  shelves ;  mon- 
sieur had  eyes  '  in  the  ends  of  his  fingers, '  as  the 
saying  goes,  and  he  did  his  own  dusting. 

To-night,  when  he  went  into  the  little  room,  he 
called  out  cheerily,  "  I,  too,  shall  go  to  the  opera 
this  evening;  I  shall  occupy  a  baignoir;  "  and  he 
left  the  door  open  into  the  hall. 

Perhaps  Jocelin  forgot  about  his  cigarette  this 
once,  for  he  did  not  go  down  into  the  courtyard. 
He  tinkered  at  the  fire  in  the  parlor  until  he  had 
made  a  broad  blaze.  He  turned  down  the  flame 


SYLVIA   GOES   TO   THE  OPERA  103 

of  the  reading-lainp,  —  undoubtedly  Jocelin  had 
an  eye  for  effect.  The  old  room  assumed  uncer- 
tain, ever- vary  ing  dimensions  in  the  leaping  light 
and  shadow;  the  tawdry  trimmings  sank  into 
dai-kness,  or  shot  forth  momentarily,  now  and 
then,  as  mere  shapeless  flashes  of  color.  Joce- 
lin's  ancestor  came  and  went  upon  the  wall. 

Jocelin  pushed  an  armchair  and  a  hassock 
where  Sylvia  could  look  at  the  fire,  and  where 
he,  by  glancing  sidewise  from  the  piano,  without 
turning  his  head,  could  look  at  Sylvia. 

"You  would  like  a  shawl?"  he  questioned. 
"No?  Then  I  think  the  curtain  may  rise." 

He  let  his  fingers  slip  along  vaguely  over  the 
keys  for  a  few  moments  with  the  same  sort  of 
assurance  and  nonchalance  with  which  a  man 
accustomed  to  the  water  will  turn  over  on  his 
back  and  float.  And  the  opera  had  begun. 

Madame  came  in  and  out  with  audible  caution 
several  times  during  the  early  part  of  the  even- 
ing, but  finally  settled  down  in  her  chair  by  the 
table  with  "L'Abeille,"  the  newspaper,  and  went 
peacefully,  and  by  good  fortune  noiselessly,  to 
sleep. 

The  opera  was  "Rigoletto." 

"  Of  course  you  know  these  songs  will  not  be 
correct,  mademoiselle;  I  can  only  give  you  the 
air,  transposed  to  the  range  of  my  own  voice." 

Jocelin  was  finding  the  notes  with  his  fingers 
as  he  talked.  Sylvia  watched  him  wonderingly 


104  DIANA   VICTRIX 

while  he  dawdled  over  the  music.  It  seemed 
he  was  in  no  hurry  to  begin.  "Tinkle,  tinkle, 
tinkle,"  said  the  notes.  There  was  a  rambling 
harmony  to  this  lazy  preamble,  nothing  more. 
Jocelin  was  slightly  round-shouldered;  his  head 
drooped  forward,  and  he  looked  at  the  keys  with 
eyes  that  were  full  of  dreams. 

"The  world  has  gone  by,"  thought  Sylvia. 
"It  is  in  a  hurry,  —  let  it  go !  " 

Jocelin  quickened  his  pace  delicately :  — 

"  Comrae  la  plume  au  vent,  femme  varie." 

He  was  beginning  with  the  tenor's  song  at  the 
wrong  end  of  the  opera.  He  sang  it  whimsically, 
somehow,  then  changed  to  the  soprano  solo  in  the 
second  act;  then  drifted  up  and  down  the  piano 
again,  and  with  a  sudden  bound  was  off  into  the 
little  drinking  song,  with  the  "Hupp!"  and  the 
uplift  at  the  end. 

"Charming!  "  cried  Sylvia;  "encore,  encore!  " 
So  he  sang  it  again,  this  time  with  bewitching 
abandon,  and  at  the  end  Sylvia's  laugh  rippled  in 
and  out  with  the  music,  up  and  down  the  piano, 
until,  with  a  tragic  sweep  of  octave,  he  brought 
the  melody  round  to  Rigoletto's  song  after  the 
betrayal  of  his  daughter,  —  the  gay  song  with  the 
sobs  beneath  the  laughter,  and  the  grief  rending 
and  tearing  the  flimsy  make-believe  of  light-heart- 
edness.  Jocelin  dropped  his  hands  from  the 
piano  when  it  was  over,  and  sat  still  for  a  moment 
before  he  turned  and  said :  — 


SYLVIA  GOES   TO   THE  OPERA  105 

"Shall  we  change  to  something  else  now?" 

Sylvia  could  only  nod.  She  still  saw  the  piti- 
ful figure  of  the  broken-hearted  old  clown;  she 
still  heard  the  wail  through  the  choppy  "lull -la  - 
la-a  "  of  his  song. 

"Did  Enid  hear  it  sung  like  that?  "  she  won- 
dered. 

"This  is  '  La  Juive, '  then,"  he  said,  and  pres- 
ently sang  the  cardinal's  song. 

"We  have  the  advantage  over  the  other  opera 
people  in  that  we  can  change  our  music  when- 
ever we  choose,  and  take  it  backwards  or  for- 
wards or  in  the  middle,"  said  Sylvia;  and  he 
nodded  and  smiled,  still  playing. 

"  0  ma  fille  ch^rie,  O  ma  fille  ch^rie." 

Jocelin  paused,  lingered  on  the  notes  as  if  he 
would  begin  again,  and  said,  while  one  hand  still 
droned  idly  over  the  keys :  — 

"That  duet  is  a  —  do  you  call  it  milestone? 
—  in  my  life.  When  I  was  a  little  boy,  I  was 
singing  it  one  day,  and  Jacques  came  out  and 
told  me  that  his  father  was  going  to  marry  my 
mother." 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Jocelin  still  moved 
his  hand  upon  the  keys,  but  without  striking 
them. 

"Yes?"  said  Sylvia,  in  a  tone  that  left  him 
free  to  be  silent  or  to  continue. 

He  chose  to  continue,  and,  still  with  head  bent 


106  DIANA    VICTRIX 

down  and  face  half  turned  towards  her,  but  eyes 
upon  his  vaguely  restless  fingers,  he  said :  — 

"I  was  under  the  bath-house  across  the  lake, 
and  I  was  singing.  I  remember  it  was  a  gray 
day,  and  Jacques  came  up  out  of  the  water  and 
told  me  that.  And  —  I  was  only  ten  years  old 
—  I  cried.  We  were  not  alike:  how  could  he 
understand?  Jacques  is  very  good  to  my  mother, 
and  to  my  sister,  but  —  we  are  not  congenial; 
when  you  say  that,  it  is  all  said." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  smiled  win- 
ningly  upon  her  for  a  moment,  then  turned  his 
eyes  back  to  the  keys. 

"Pardon  me,  mademoiselle;  I  will  return  to 
the  music." 

"No,  no!"  Sylvia  hastened  to  cry  out.  "At 
least,  —  of  course,  do  not  talk  about  it  if  you 
do  not  wish  to,  but  I  enjoy  hearing  you  tell  of 
your  life;  it  has  grown  up  in  such  a  different 
atmosphere  from  my  own,  it  is  as  interesting  to 
me  as  a  romance." 

So  Jocelin  twisted  around  on  the  piano-stool, 
and  the  firelight  fell  upon  his  face  and  sank  into 
his  wistful  eyes;  and,  sitting  thus,  he  began  to 
do  the  thing  he  knew  how  to  do  best,  next  after 
his  singing,  and  that  was,  to  talk  about  himself. 

"It  is  not  much  of  a  life,"  he  said  quietly;  "it 
is  not  what  I  wanted  it  to  be  —  But  that  is  past 
now." 

He  made  an  interesting  figure  with  his  thin, 


SYLVIA   GOES   TO   THE   OPERA  107 

brown  face,  and  the  red,  curved  lips  beneath  the 
small  black  moustache,  and  that  pathetic  droop 
to  his  shoulders,  as  he  sat  there  before  the  fire, 
saying  these  melancholy  words.  From  the  bot- 
tom of  her  heart  Sylvia  pitied  him,  and  this  was 
what  he  had  meant  that  she  should  do. 

"But  you  are  young,"  she  ventured;  "why  is 
it  you  speak  like  that?"  And  as  she  said  it,  she 
thought  of  her  own  life ;  and  she,  too,  was  young. 

"It  is  my  voice,  mademoiselle,"  he  answered; 
and  again,  with  the  quietness  that  is  not  sad,  but 
is  more  sorrowful  than  sadness,  "my  voice!  " 

"Your  voice?"  she  said  perplexedly;  "I  do 
not  understand.  It  is  a  very  beautiful  voice; 
surely  you  must  know  that?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  half  contemptu- 
ously, as  a  child  might  who  was  offered  one 
sweetmeat  and  preferred  another. 

"When  I  was  a  little  boy,  everybody  said, 
'  He  will  have  a  marvelous  voice ! '  When  I 
sang,  the  ladies  wept  and  embraced  me  and  said, 
'  You  have  a  future  before  you,  my  child. '  I 
did  not  love  anything  so  much  as  I  loved  my 
voice.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  love  anything 
with  a  greater  love.  It  has  always  seemed  to  me 
that  it  is  presumptuous  in  me  to  think  that  I 
could  love  a  human  being  —  a  woman  —  with  the 
holiness,  the  unselfishness,  that  the  word  '  love ' 
means  to  me.  Others  claim  that  they  do  it,  but 
how  can  they  hope  to?" 


108  DIANA   VICTEIX 

There  was  a  large  humility  about  these  simple 
words  that  made  them  worthy  of  being  spoken  by 
a  greater  saint  than  Jocelin.  His  eyes  were 
those  of  a  pure-hearted  child  as  he  looked  at 
Sylvia.  This  was  the  great  charm  about  Joce- 
lin, that  he  believed  every  word  he  said  to  you, 
at  the  moment  that  he  said  it. 

"My  voice  was  mine,"  he  went  on.  "That 
was  not  an  unselfish  love,  but  I  loved  it.  And 
it  has  been  as  a  child  that  grows  up  full  of  prom- 
ise and  becomes  a  disappointment  to  its  father. 
But  a  father  always  loves  his  child." 

He  smiled  a  whimsical  smile  that  seemed  to 
ask  pardon  for  his  fantastic  notion,  and  contin- 
ued :  — 

"You  admire  my  voice,  mademoiselle, — you 
think  it  is  remarkable,  and  large,  and  sufficient 
to  satisfy  any  one.  That  is  because  I  know  how 
to  use  it  so  well." 

He  said  this  without  the  faintest  shade  of  self- 
conceit  in  voice  or  manner,  and  indeed  he  felt 
none ;  he  was  merely  stating  a  fact. 

"I  have  had  excellent  training.  I  believe  I 
know  how  to  do  with  my  voice  whatever  can  be 
done  with  it,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  it  contains 
only  about  eight  notes.  It  is  a  baritone,  and 
a  baritone  of  short  range.  About  eight  notes  I 
have ;  the  rest  is  what  we  in  French  call  factice, 
It  is  a  trick.  I  am  able  to  make  you  think  I  do 
things  which  in  reality  I  do  not  do  at  all.  Because 


SYLVIA  GOES   TO   THE  OPES  A  109 

I  have  learned  the  art  of  singing,  and  because 
I  know  my  voice,  I  can  do  this.  In  addition,  I 
have  no  volume.  You  have  heard  me  sing  in 
a  parlor,  mademoiselle.  If  you  were  to  hear  me 
sing  in  the  opera  house  "  —  He  stopped,  and 
his  sensitive  mouth  contracted.  Then  he  said 
abruptly,  "It  would  be  different." 

Sylvia  waited  while  he  poked  the  fire,  and  she 
noticed  how  his  hand  shook.  When  he  began 
again,  he  had  tried  to  resume  his  quiet,  unemo- 
tional manner :  — 

"I  have  not  the  physique,  the  strength.  I  had 
not  the  constitution.  But  I  did  not  know.  And 
I  tried." 

There  was  a  tragedy  of  failure  in  those  few 
words.  His  face  worked,  and  he  got  up  and 
turned  his  back  upon  Sylvia,  and  walked  slowly 
the  length  of  the  room.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
she  must  cry  out  in  her  pain  and  pity,  but  she 
clenched  her  hands  and  sat  still. 

"I  had  spent  years  of  study  upon  it,"  he  said, 
coming  back  and  sitting  down  once  more;  "I 
had  worked  upon  the  scales,  the  trills,  the  exer- 
cises, until  my  voice  was  as  flexible,  as  even,  as 
smooth !  —  there  was  not  a  rough  place  in  it. 
They  gave  me  the  best  masters  here,  and  those 
were  very  good.  I  had  a  little  money  of  my  own 
left  from  my  father,  a  very  little.  When  I  was 
twenty -two,  I  had  been  studying  six  years;  my 
voice  changed  early.  There  was  a  great  singer 


110  DIANA    VICTRIX 

who  came  here,  and  I  was  introduced  to  her,  and 
she  heard  me  sing.  She  took  a  fancy  to  me. 
When  she  went  away,  I  went,  too,  in  her  opera 
company.  There  was  a  place  for  me,  by  chance. 
It  made  niamaii  unhappy;  she  wished  me  to 
remain  at  home.  Jacques  was  very  angry;  he 
called  me  hard  names,  but  he  does  not  appreciate 
these  things.  If  I  had  made  my  name  as  a  great 
singer,  they  would  have  been  proud.  I  knew 
this,  and  so  I  went  away,  but  I  did  not  tell  them ; 
I  could  not  bear  to  give  my  mother  pain,  and 
they  did  not  know  that  I  had  gone  until  it  was 
the  next  day." 

These  occasional  quaint  lapses  in  Jocelin's 
English  only  enhanced  the  ordinary  precision  of 
his  phrases.  Sylvia,  listening  to  him,  could  not 
but  wonder,  now  and  then,  where  he  had  learned 
the  language.  His  enunciation  was  utterly  dif- 
ferent from  that  of  Jacques;  for  while,  on  the 
one  hand,  he  had  retained  distinct  traces  of 
accent  in  his  voice,  and  Jacques  only  betrayed 
his  French  origin  at  rare  intervals  by  a  misplace- 
ment of  emphasis  upon  syllables,  on  the  other 
hand  he  gave  his  words  a  roundness,  an  exact- 
ness, an  almost  Bostonian  finish,  which  were  en- 
tirely absent  from  the  speech  of  his  step-brother, 
who  flattened  his  "a's  "  like  a  true  Southerner. 

There  had  been  another  long  pause,  during 
which  the  frankness  with  which  Jocelin  acknow- 
ledged his  running  away  went  far  to  justifying 
the  act  in  Sylvia's  mind. 


SYLVIA   GOES   TO   THE  OPERA  111 

"  It  was  in  Memphis  that  I  sang.  And  it  was 
not  as  large  an  opera  house  as  ours.  There  was 
a  fashionable  audience,  —  very  polite,  —  I  only 
heard  one  little  hiss.  But  if  there  had  been 
more  hisses,  it  would  have  been  preferable.  She 
said  to  me  after  it  was  over,  '  I  was  afraid  of  it. 
They  could  not  hear  you,  my  friend ;  they  missed 
the  fine  work  because  of  lack  of  power.  It  is  an 
exquisite  voice,  but  we  must  make  up  our  minds 
to  the  fact  that  it  is  not  meant  for  grand  opera. ' 
She  would  have  had  me  stay  with  her.  She  was 
fond  of  me.  But  I  loved  my  voice  better  than  I 
loved  her.  It  stifled  me  to  remain  with  her,  and 
I  went  away.  I  had  dreamed,  and  dreamed,  and 
I  had  labored,  building,  polishing,  finishing  that 
voice.  I  do  not  understand  why  I  was  born. 
The  failure  of  my  voice  was  due  to  faults  that 
were  not  mine.  It  is  unjust !  The  doctors  said 
to  me,  '  You  must  take  care  of  yourself,  Mr.  Cas- 
taigne;  it  is  an  inherited  delicacy  of  constitu- 
tion. '  I  was  angry  when  they  told  me  that,  and 
I  said,  'What  do  they  mean?'  And  I  bought 
a  medical  book  and  read  their  jargon.  I  think 
there  was  one  word  in  it  I  could  comprehend, 
and  that  was  '  ancestry.'  And  I  thought  of  that 
man  there  on  the  wall,  whose  nose  I  possess.  '  I 
was  still  away  from  home ;  but  he  is  historical,  so 
I  could  get  a  book  about  him  and  his  sons  and 
his  sons'  sons.  Then  I  understood !  They  had 
thrown  me  the  rags  of  their  flesh  and  the  dregs 


112  DIANA   VICTEIX 

of  their  blood,  these  ancestors;  they  had  sighed 
a  last  gasp  of  genius  into  my  soul.  In  the  North, 
where  I  strayed  for  three  years,  I  learned  that 
these  ideas  were  well  known,  were  ordinary,  but 
to  me  they  were  new.  When  I  can  sing  with 
art,  and  more  than  art,  with  something  that  even 
in  my  poor  voice  can  hold  and  stir  men's  hearts, 
must  I  sit  down  and  let  that  fellow  at  the  opera 
house  come  out  and  sing  Kigoletto's  song,  and 
bellow,  and  be  heard  and  praised,  —  because  he 
is  not  so  well  born  as  I,  and  his  strength  has  not 
been  sapped,  and  the  root  of  his  tree  is  not  rotten 
and  dead?  Is  it  any  satisfaction  to  me  to  know 
that  I  sing  it  better  than  he  does?" 

There  was  a  hopeless  note  ringing  through  his 
voice  and  his  rapid  words.  He  had  forgotten 
himself  for  the  moment  in  his  grief. 

"I  obtained  positions  in  theatrical  companies, 
sometimes  in  comic  opera,  to  sing,  sometimes 
only  to  act.  I  despised  it,  but  there  was  no 
hope,  and  I  did  not  care.  I  did  many  wicked 
things."  He  had  returned  to  his  impassive  tone. 
"I  did  many  wicked  things;  I  did  not  care.  I 
drank ;  I  was  very  dissipated.  And  all  that  was 
not  good  for  my  voice ;  it  is  weaker  now  than  it 
used  to  be,  and  less  elastic.  You  tell  me  it  is 
a  beautiful  voice  now,  mademoiselle,  —  but  if 
you  had  heard  it  three  years  ago !  I  was  desper- 
ate, and  I  did  not  care.  And  yet  I  can  say 
this,  "  —  he  looked  at  Sylvia  with  wistful  guile- 


SYLVIA   GOES   TO   THE  OPERA  113 

lessness,  —  "I  have  never  harmed  any  one  but 
myself." 

Sylvia  had  been  unpleasantly  conscious,  all 
along,  of  the  singer  who  was  fond  of  him,  and 
whom  he  left  because  he  did  not  love  her  as 
dearly  as  he  loved  his  voice;  and  now  she  felt 
a  sense  of  relief  which  inclined  her  to  take,  per- 
haps, a  more  lenient  and  humble-minded  view  of 
his  excesses  than  was  at  all  necessary  under  the 
circumstances. 

Jocelin  was  not  a  liar;  it  was  simply  that, 
when  he  made  a  statement,  the  actions  in  his  life 
which  might  have  contradicted  this  statement 
went  out  from  his  mind  as  cleanly  as  if  they  had 
never  been.  Indeed,  for  the  moment,  they  were 
to  him  as  if  they  were  not.  He  was  entirely  un- 
conscious of  falsehood  in  the  matter.  Moreover, 
it  is  perfectly  possible  that,  even  while  keeping 
the  singer  in  mind,  Jocelin  could  still,  irrespec- 
tive of  the  facts  of  the  affair,  have  made  that 
magnanimous  remark.  There  are  so  many  ways 
of  looking  at  a  thing,  you  know.  What  is  black 
on  a  dove  may  not  show  on  a  crow.  This  aspect 
of  the  case  did  not  occur  to  Sylvia  for  two  or 
three  years. 

Jocelin  had  no  intention  of  deceiving  Sylvia; 
on  the  contrary,  he  was  showing  her  the  self  in 
him  that  he  most  believed  in,  and  the  simplicity 
of  his  confession,  "I  have  been  very  dissipated," 
only  added  to  his  charm.  It  was  such  an  un- 


114  DIANA   VICTIUX 

usual,  such  a  childlike,  statement.  If  he  knew 
this,  he  did  not,  therefore,  repress  it.  Jocelin 
was  a  queer  mixture  of  naivete  and  art.  The 
point  of  division  between  where  he  had  tried  to 
produce  an  effect,  and  where  he  had  produced  an 
effect  without  trying,  was  difficult  to  distinguish. 
In  his  pleasures  he  showed  great  catholicity  of 
taste,  —  at  the  present  moment  his  soul  asked  for 
no  higher  bliss  than  to  sit  in  this  quiet,  firelit 
room,  and  watch  this  spirit-like  Puritan  girl,  and 
talk  to  her  of  his  ideals  and  his  disappointments. 
But  it  is  equally  true  that,  in  the  midst  of  revelry 
and  feasting  and  wine,  his  soul  turned  face  about 
and  went  joyously  the  way  of  all  flesh.  It  is 
hard  to  say  in  which  of  these  roles  his  grace  and 
charm  of  childlikeness  proved  the  more  effective 
and  dangerous. 

"No,  I  have  never  harmed  any  one  but  my- 
self," he  repeated  shamelessly,  and  the  radiance 
of  candor  suffused  his  liquid  eyes. 

"It  is  a  great  deal  to  be  able  to  say  that," 
murmured  Sylvia. 

She  knew  that  she  ought  to  initiate  him  into 
the  ethical  problem  of  his  responsibility  towards 
his  own  soul,  but  once  more  she  said  to  herself, 
"The  world  is  in  a  hurry,  —  let  it  go !  " 

Jocelin  smiled  a  lovable,  modest  smile.  He 
felt  very  modest,  very  humble,  very  repentant, 
as  he  confessed  his  sins  to  this  unspotted,  unsus- 
picious woman.  He  had  sinned,  but  not  yet 


SYLVIA   GOES   TO   THE  OPERA  115 

often  enough  for  remorse  to  have  begun  to  bite 
through  the  pleasure  of  repentance. 

"I  have  been  in  Philadelphia,  New  York,  Bos- 
ton, Washington,  all  the  large  cities  of  the  North. 
I  learned  my  English  in  the  theatrical  companies. 
Before  that,  I  had  known  very  little  of  Ameri- 
cans. Jacques  went  to  the  American  University, 
but  I  went  to  a  French  school.  Jacques  and  I 
were  always  different.  In  New  York  I  got  a 
place  in  a  church,  after  a  time,  and  I  sang  at  one 
or  two  houses  in  the  evenings.  People  liked  my 
voice;  they  pay  well  for  that  sort  of  thing;  I 
was  beginning  to  'take,'  as  they  say  in  slang. 
But  imagine,  mademoiselle!  I  had  not  seen  my 
home  and  my  mother,  and  my  little  sister,  for 
three  years.  I  was  racked  with  homesickness, 
that  terrible  sensation.  The  choir-master  said 
'  Stay;'  he  was  most  anxious,  but  nothing  would 
induce  me  to  do  so.  I  could  not;  it  was  an  im- 
possibilite.  Figure  to  yourself,  mademoiselle, 
the  desire.  I  was  miserable,  and  I  returned 
home." 

"And  you  mean  that  you  were  beginning  to 
gain,  to  have  some  success,  and  you  gave  it  all 
up?"  said  Sylvia. 

"But  consider  that  terrible  homesickness!" 
said  Jocelin;  "I  felt  that  I  should  die  if  I  did 
not  return.  On  the  whole,  I  am  not  doing  so 
badly  here.  It  has  taken  a  long  while,  but  I 
have  a  pupil  now,  and  I  sing  in  some  choirs.  I 


116  DIANA    VICTRIX 

earn  a  little  money,  and  for  the  rest,  —  my  life 
is  already  over.  As  for  that,  it  never  began,  it 
only  —  how  do  you  say?  —  baulked." 

He  smiled  wistfully  over  his  little  joke,  and, 
twisting  around  on  the  piano-stool,  began  to  play 
again  softly. 

There  were  many  evenings  that  winter  when 
Sylvia  talked  to  Jocelin,  tried  to  rouse  him,  tried 
to  reason  with  him,  but  to-night  she  could  not  do 
these  things.  His  moral  depression  and  inactiv- 
ity were  too  like  her  own;  they  made  her  feel 
faint  and  ashamed,  and  she  wanted  to  hide  her 
face.  Who  was  she,  that  she  should  deem  her- 
self worthy  to  show  him  the  necessity  for  struggle 
and  action?  The  words  of  rebuke  and  exhorta- 
tion which  the  occasion  demanded  fell  back  in 
her  throat  and  choked  her.  There  was  something 
very  like  fright  in  her  eyes  as  she  stared  into  the 
fire,  for  she  had  been  twisted  around  into  sitting 
in  judgment  upon  her  own  soul,  and,  with  all  her 
introspection  and  self-reproach,  this  was  some- 
thing she  had  not  done  before. 

The  melody  flickered  and  flushed  with  the 
fire-shadows,  and  there  was  silence  for  a  while 
between  the  two  quiet,  flame-lighted  figures,  the 
Puritan  and  the  Creole,  who  had  come  along 
their  widely  separated  paths  to  the  place  where 
two  roads  meet,  and  now  lay  idle  at  the  cross- 
ways.  Back,  back,  along  his  road,  along  the 
track  of  his  life,  and  the  track  of  the  lives  that 


SYLVIA  GOES   TO   THE  OPERA  117 

had  gone  to  the  making  and  marring  of  his,  far 
back  as  you  chose  to  listen,  there  came  a  sound 
of  laughter  and  revel,  a  clashing  of  swords,  a 
clinking  of  wine-cups,  a  rumble  of  oaths,  and  a 
musical  flow  of  words  that  were  poems.  And, 
looking,  you  saw,  behind  and  beyond  on  the  road, 
pale,  drink-sodden,  passionate  faces,  and  slender 
white  fingers  that  trembled ;  and,  backward  still, 
beauty,  and  pride  of  bearing,  and  gay-colored 
garments.  You  saw  debauch,  and  chivalry,  and 
brilliant  wit,  on  that  road.  Genius  and  Love-of- 
Pleasure  came  down  all  the  length  of  it,  sinning 
together,  now  one,  now  the  other  pursuing,  pol- 
luting, polluted,  and  languid  with  passion.  And 
there  at  the  cross-roads  Jocelin  lay.  One  leap 
for  him,  and  he  came  to  the  end  of  it  quickly. 
And  there  at  the  cross-roads  lay  Genius  and 
Love-of-Pleasure,  pale,  stupid,  and  sick  of  each 
other;  but  the  will  to  fling  off  and  abandon  the 
one,  the  other,  was  gone. 

Look  now  on  the  strait  and  narrow  way 
whence  Sylvia  came.  Gray-garmented  figures, 
demure  in  their  glances  and  staid  in  their  gait, 
pass  onward.  The  murmurs  of  prayers  are  the 
poems,  the  terrible  exhortation  of  preachers  is  all 
the  sound  of  riot  along  this  road.  In  the  dead 
of  night,  if  you  walked,  you  stumbled  on  kneel- 
ing figures  that  knelt  the  long  night  through, 
immovable,  wrestling  in  the  spirit.  Look  on- 
ward and  into  the  faces  of  those  who  travel 


118  DIANA    VICTRIX 

sedately  this  road.  The  faces  of  men  are  steeled 
to  contemplate  the  logic  of  justice  and  judgment 
their  intellect  bids  them  accept  as  the  end  of 
creation.  The  faces  of  mothers  are  thin  and 
drawn  with  the  terror  of  bearing  children  des- 
tined, perhaps,  to  go  down  headlong  to  destruc- 
tion. And  oh,  the  faces  of  children!  Turn 
away  and  weep!  Caution,  bewilderment,  irreso- 
lution, totter  along  by  the  wayside. 

Sylvia's  people  came  this  way.  Down  this 
road  comes  Genius,  too,  sister  to  that  other,  a 
brilliant,  thinking  creature  with  wings  of  iris. 
Down  this  road  comes  Master  Puritan  What-is- 
my-Duty,  terrified,  shrinking,  loving  the  rainbow 
Genius,  — loving  and  loved  in  turn,  — wistfully, 
sadly,  submissively.  And  between  is  the  width 
of  the  roadway,  all  too  narrow  for  terror  and  in- 
decision. Always  the  roadway  lies  between,  and 
Genius  and  What-is-my-Duty  tremble  along  its 
edges,  eying  each  other,  wasting  thinner  with 
longing. 

This  is  the  road  along  which  Sylvia,  doubting 
herself,  staggered  a  little  space  before  she  lay 
down  at  the  cross-ways.  And  over  her  body, 
standing  one  on  each  side,  Genius  and  What-is- 
my-Duty  look  at  each  other,  so  tired,  so  thin! 
and  the  will  to  touch  is  gone,  and  the  fear  of 
each  other  is  gone,  and  they  do  not  care. 

Something  of  all  this  Jocelin  felt  and  Sylvia 
thought,  in  the  quaint,  dim  room  where  the  music 


SYLVIA   GOES   TO   THE  OPERA  119 

and  the  shadows  mingled.  Something  of  this, 
but  only  a  dim,  vague  something,  incomplete. 
And  the  one  mind  lapped  itself  in  the  pleasure 
of  sitting  still  in  a  sympathetic  and  comprehend- 
ing silence  with  a  pure  woman,  and  the  other 
mind  stiffened  with  terror  at  the  recognition  of 
its  own  sympathy  with  and  comprehension  of  a 
psychical  state  which  it  saw  to  be  the  result  of 
sin. 

Madame  opened  her  eyes  and  peered  around 
sleepily.  Sylvia  glanced  at  the  clock,  and,  find- 
ing the  hands  at  a  quarter  past  eleven,  rose  and 
said  good-night,  and  thanked  Jocelin  for  the  even- 
ing. When  she  had  gone,  he  went  down  to  the 
courtyard  and  smoked  the  long-deferred  cigarette. 

An  hour  later  Enid  peeped  cautiously  into 
Sylvia's  room,  and,  hearing  a  gentle  "Don't  be 
afraid!  I'm  awake,"  came  in,  lit  the  gas,  and 
sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 

"Such  a  good  time!"  she  said.  "I  wished 
for  you.  Some  of  the  voices  were  good,  and 
there  was  a  full  house.  So  many  pretty  women ! 
I  was  introduced  to  a  lot  of  men,  all  more  or  less 
uninteresting,  rather  vapid  creatures,  —  chit- 
chatty,  you  know.  But  I  think  they  felt  I  must 
be  worth  cultivating,  as  I  was  in  Miss  Campion's 
box." 

She  laughed  with  a  quizzical,  shamefaced  look, 
and  Sylvia  laughed,  too. 

"But  I  quite  enjoyed  Mr.  Dumarais.     He  has 


120  DIANA   VICTRIX 

gotten  over  expecting  me  to  flirt  or  languish,  and 
he  is  really  very  good  company.  We  spent  two 
of  the  intermissions  promenading  in  the  foyer, 
and  quarreling  violently,  first  over  the  Lottery 
Question,  and  then  over  the  Italians  again.  He 
is  not  on  the  Lottery  side,  not  in  the  least;  be- 
lieves it 's  wrong  and  all  that,  but  calmly  says  he 
buys  a  ticket  every  month.  It  is  absolutely  in- 
consistent, you  know,  and  I  tried  to  make  him 
see  it,  and  he  laughed  and  said,  '  Ah,  bah ! ' 
You  couldn't  make  him  reason  it  out  or  connect 
it  with  the  general  question.  He  only  smiled 
and  looked  amused  and  superior.  There  was  no 
making  him  dissatisfied;  he  didn't  seem  to  have 
any  moral  feeling  in  the  matter  at  all.  It  was 
like  the  unmoral  fairy  creatures  who  never  did 
wrong  because  right  and  wrong  had  not  begun 
to  be  differentiated  for  them.  I  can't  understand 
it.  And,  Sylvia  dear,  I  wish  you  could  have  seen 
Jeanne !  She  has  all  the  pretty,  trembling  alter- 
nation between  assurance  and  timidity  that  goes 
to  make  a  success  in  what  we  call  society.  I 
never  recognized  it  so  clearly  before.  She  was 
perfectly  bewitching,  and  all  the  men,  old  and 
young,  were  hovering  round,  beaming  upon  her. 
Miss  Campion  said  again  and  again,  '  Isn't  she 
charming ! '  and  her  step-brother  was  so  proud 
and  pleased!  There  was  a  glamour  about  her, 
and  yet  it  was  not  in  what  she  said ;  her  conver- 
sation had  no  more  thought  in  it  than  that  of  a 


SYLVIA   GOES   TO   THE  OPERA  121 

well-brought-up  child ;  but  it  was  so  pretty,  with 
that  childlike  originality  about  it  which  appeals 
to  men  as  feminine.  I  am  so  glad  that  she  is  to 
have  a  happy  winter.  As  we  came  upstairs,  Mr. 
Jacques  put  his  arm  around  her  and  kissed  her, 
and  she  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  with  a 
kind  of  ecstasy  and  said,  '  You  were  pleased, 
Jacques,  weren't  you?'  I  —  I—  Dear  little 
thing!  But  she  isn't  the  sort  of  woman  that 
will  appeal  to  him,  I  'm  afraid.  He  is  much 
more  intellectual  than  she,  even  if  he  is  so  pig- 
headed. And  did  you  have  a  nice  evening?  Did 
he  sing  well?  " 

"Beautifully!"  said  Sylvia.  "I  do  not  be- 
lieve your  Kigoletto  sang  the  song  after  the  be- 
trayal so  well." 

"Perhaps  not,"  replied  Enid.  "Oh,  my  dear! 
the  funniest  thing  was  the  women's  chorus,  — 
large,  fat,  aged  creatures!  Oh,  so  homely! 
You  should  have  heard  Roma  Campion's  remarks 
about  them.  She  has  not  that  regard  for  the 
manners  and  customs  of  her  native  place  which 
seems  to  be  inborn  in  most  of  the  other  people 
we  have  met  here.  But  I  must  not  keep  you 
awake  a  minute  longer.  I  am  so  glad  you  en- 
joyed your  evening,  too.  Tell  me  about  it  to- 
morrow. " 

"He  told  me  all  about  his  life,  poor  man!" 
whispered  Sylvia.  "It  has  been  very  sad." 

"Well,  dear,  you  mustn't  lie  awake  mourning 


122  DIANA   VICTE1X 

over  it.  If  it  is  sad,  I  've  no  doubt  he  helped  to 
make  it  so.  There!  I  didn't  mean  to  be  unap- 
preciative.  He  is  a  dear,  thoughtful  young  man, 
and  I  like  him,  and  I  am  really  sorry  for  him. 
But  you  mustn't  stay  awake." 

"Don't  you  think,"  faltered  Sylvia,  "that 
although  you  have  the  sorrows  of  humanity  at 
heart,  sometimes  you  are  a  little  impatient  of  the 
sorrows  of  particular  men? " 

"Yes,"  answered  Enid;  "I  do  think  so,  but 
not  of  particular  women." 

She  laughed  as  she  said  this,  and,  leaning  over, 
kissed  her  friend. 

"No,  — I  know,"  said  Sylvia  penitently;  "and 
I,  of  all  people,  ought  to  be  the  last  to  accuse  you 
of  not  caring  for  the  individual,  when  I  remem- 
ber what  you  are  constantly  doing  just  for  my 
sake." 

"I  shall  say  '  Ah,  bah! '  as  Monsieur  Jacques 
does  when  he  wishes  to  dismiss  a  subject,"  said 
Enid  lightly.  "And  now  good-night!  " 

Sylvia  lay  awake  another  hour. 

"Because  he  is  so  like  myself,"  she  thought, 
"because  he  is  tired  and  discouraged,  I  must  try 
to  help  him.  As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  my  own 
illness  and  uselessness  in  the  world  need  not 
prevent  me  from  helping  him  to  be  useful,  if  I 
can.  I  cannot  be  anything  for  myself,  but  I 
must  try  to  help  him  to  be  something.  I  can  do 
that,  —  I  can  try  to  do  that,  for  he  has  confided 


SYLVIA   GOES   TO   THE  OPERA  123 

in  me.  I  must  help  him.  I  must.  It  does  not 
matter  about  myself;  this  is  only  pride,  this 
desire  in  me  to  be  something.  If  I  had  been 
meant  to  do  anything  in  the  world,  I  should  have 
tried  long  ago,  just  as  he  tried;  he  is  better  than 
I.  Because  I  have  not  made  an  effort,  it  shows 
I  could  not.  I  wonder  if  I  could  really  do  it  if  I 
— 'if  —  I  wonder  if  Enid  is  right  when  she  says  I 
could  —  if  I  would?  She  believes  in  the  frag- 
ments I  have  done.  It  is  all  fragments.  The 
days  go,  and  I  never  begin  the  blending  of  the 
fragments.  I  wonder  if  I  could !  I  want  to,  — 
oh,  I  want  to !  Oh,  I  want  to !  Why?  I  wonder 
if  I  could  ?  I  wonder  if  I  should  fail  as  he  did, 
if  I  tried,  from  lack  of  power?  I  think  so.  I 
wonder,  —  oh,  Enid,  I  would  try,  if  I  thought 
you  were  right.  I  am  so  tired,  —  and  so  is  he. 
I  '11  let  myself  alone.  I  '11  give  myself  up.  I 
must  help  him.  I  will!" 

This  thought  was  the  beginning  of  the  salva- 
tion of  Sylvia. 


BOOK  II 

JEANNE'S  WINTER 

"  At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry, 
With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 
Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily 
The  brain,  new-stuff'd  in  youth  with  triumphs  gay 

Of  old  romance." 

JOHN  KEATS. 


CHAPTER   I 

MATRIMONY   SERIOUSLY   CONSIDERED 

CHRISTMAS  came  and  went,  mild  and  sunny. 
Le  Jour  de  VAn  passed  by,  and  Jeanne's  win- 
ter whirled  merrily  on  towards  Twelfth  Night 
and  the  Carnival,  and  Jeanne  whirled  with  it. 
Jacques  had  nothing  to  complain  of;  she  was 
living  up  to  all  her  social  opportunities  with  a 
successf ulness  that  left  nothing  to  be  desired; 
and,  truth  to  tell,  Jacques  was  very  proud  of  her. 
He  used  to  stand  aside  with  Enid  and  watch  the 
little  sister  with  paternal  satisfaction  and  amuse- 
ment as  she  danced  by,  looking  over  her  shoul- 
der to  nod  .and  smile.  That  little  nod  and  smile 
were  always  ready  when  he  chose  to  look  her 
way.  "Are  you  pleased?  Do  you  approve?" 
her  eyes  said  to  him  twenty  times  in  an  evening, 
and  sometimes  he  smiled  back  "Yes,"  and  some- 
times he  was  so  busy  talking  to  Enid  that  he 
stared  straight  through  the  question  in  the  eyes, 
and  only  knew,  a  moment  later,  that  it  was 
Jeanne  who  had  passed  by  and  looked  at  him. 
When  she  pretended  to  pout  and  be  cross  with 
him,  saying,  perhaps :  — 


128  DIANA    VICTRIX 

"But,  Jacques,  you  did  not  dance  with  me  a 
single  time  last  evening !  "  — 

He  would  answer,  "Why  should  I?  It  is 
only  the  girls  who  do  not  have  many  partners 
who  need  to  be  looked  after  by  their  brothers.  I 
should  have  had  half  a  dozen  young  fellows  about 
my  ears  last  night  if  I  had  tried  to  monopolize 
you." 

And  she  would  laugh  and  blush,  not  more  than 
half  appeased,  but  unwilling  to  say  so,  since 
Jacques  always  knew  best. 

"There  is  no  show  for  any  of  the  rest  of  us 
when  Dumarais  is  around,"  one  of  the  young 
men  said  laughingly  once.  He  said  it  with  the 
best  intentions,  under  the  impression  that  he  was 
giving  pleasure  to  Jacques;  but  it  put  Jacques 
absurdly  out  of  temper,  and  he  said  "Ah,  bah!  " 
and  scowled,  and  told  the  innocent  young  man 
not  to  be  an  idiot. 

Jacques'  business  arrangements  were  still  un- 
settled. His  firm,  when  apprised  of  his  inten- 
tion to  withdraw  from  them,  came  forward  hand- 
somely, and  made  offers  which  Curtis  Baird 
insisted  that  he  should  consider.  So  January 
was  passing,  and  Jacques  was  debating  over  two 
offers  instead  of  one,  and  certain  of  increasing 
his  income,  no  matter  which  one  he  should  decide 
to  accept.  Six  months  ago,  a  hint  that  he  might 
hope  for  success,  if  he  cared  to  lay  siege  to  the 
heart  of  his  pretty  step-sister,  would  not  have 


MATRIMONY  SERIOUSLY  CONSIDERED      129 

troubled  him  in  the  least;  he  would  have  dis- 
missed it  with  his  usual  melancholy  "I  cannot 
afford  to  marry."  Nay,  more  than  this,  six 
months  ago  such  a  hint  would  have  pleased  and 
flattered  him.  What  had  happened  to  him  that 
to-day  he  should  fall  into  a  rage  with  the  well- 
meaning  suggester  of  such  a  possibility?  To- 
day, when  the  financial  obstacles  to  his  marriage 
were  removed! 

"It's  a  shame  to  set  on  foot  a  report  like 
that!"  he  blustered  within  himself,  thinking  the 
matter  over,  for  it  tormented  him.  "It's  a 
shame !  It  does  not  give  a  girl  half  a  chance  to 
do  well  for  herself.  No  fellow  is  going  to  pay 
serious  attentions  to  her,  if  he  thinks  she  's  al- 
ready as  good  as  engaged  to  another  man." 

Did  you  wish  her  to  fall  in  love  with  some  one 
else,  then,  Jacques  ?  Was  it  that  you  considered 
yourself  less  desirable  as  a  parti  than  the  numer- 
ous impecunious  young  clerks,  with  seventy -five 
dollars  a  month  and  no  prospects,  who  fluttered 
foolishly  about  your  step-sister  ?  Were  you  con- 
vinced that  some  middle-aged  club-man  would  be 
more  desirable  as  a  husband  than  you?  Didn't 
you  want  to  marry  her,  Jacques? 

"It  would  spoil  all  her  fun,  if  I  let  such  a 
rumor  get  about,"  he  reasoned;  "it  isn't  fair  to 
her.  She  has  never  seen  anything  of  the  world. 
She  doesn't  know  her  own  mind.  I'll  see  if  I 
can't  arrange  to  send  her  North  next  summer, 
and  give  her  a  taste  of  something  different." 


130  DIANA   VICTRIX 

He  could  not  dismiss  the  subject  from  his 
mind;  it  ran  along  as  an  undercurrent  beneath 
all  his  decisions  and  debatings  concerning  his 
business  arrangements. 

"Hang  it  all!"  he  swore  at  his  pertinacious 
and  offending  self-consciousness.  "  A  man  has  n't 
got  to  start  in  and  get  married  just  the  very 
minute  he  's  able  to.  If  I  hadn't  these  offers,  I 
couldn't  marry,  and  there  would  be  an  end  to  it. 
I  don't  see  why  the  case  should  be  any  different 
now,  or  the  necessity  any  more  urgent." 

Then  he  would  experience  a  revulsion  of  sen- 
timent, and  would  call  himself  a  conceited  ape 
for  presuming  to  think  that  she  cared  for  him  in 
such  a  way.  Wasn't  he  the  same  as  a  brother  to 
her?  Hadn't  they  lived  together  all  their  lives? 
Didn't  he  really  stand  to  her  in  the  place  of  a 
father?  She  loved  him,  but  didn't  he  love  her? 
She  was  no  fonder  of  him  than  he  was  of  her. 
And  then,  perhaps,  across  a  crowded  room  he 
would  meet  the  inquiry  in  her  loving  brown  eyes, 
and  his  impatience  and  irritation  would  vanish, 
leaving  a  strange  heartache  in  their  stead,  for 
indeed  he  was  very  fond  of  this  little  sister. 

"Of  course,  if  I  were  in  love  with  any  one 
else,"  he  argued,  "it  would  be  different,  entirely 
different.  But  I  'm  not,  —  I'm  not !  " 

He  assured  himself  of  this  fact  fretfully.  "I  'd 
like  to  see  anybody  accuse  me  of  being  in  love 
with  any  one  else!  " 


MATRIMONY  SERIOUSLY  CONSIDERED      131 

And  at  this  juncture  lie  usually  excused  him- 
self from  Enid  and  went  in  search  of  Jeanne, 
and  put  his  name  down  for  a  dance,  or  took  her 
off  to  get  a  glass  of  punch. 

But  there  were  other  times  when,  talking  with 
Enid,  he  forgot  to  watch  uneasily  for  Jeanne's 
glance ;  forgot  to  declare  that  he  was  in  love  with 
no  one  else;  forgot  everything,  except  that  this 
handsome  woman  with  the  clear  voice  was  the 
most  entertaining  and  appreciative  comrade  he 
had  ever  had.  He  began. to  compare  her  with 
the  other  women  of  his  acquaintance,  and  decid- 
edly to  the' detriment  of  those  other  women.  He 
began  to  forget  to  apologize  for  talking  to  her  as 
if  she  were  a  man.  He  began  to  turn  with  relief 
from  chatter  about  Miss  This  and  Mr.  That,  the 
details  of  the  newest  engagement  or  the  latest 
ball,  and  the  vapid  flippancies  that  pass  for  wit, 
to  this  serious -minded  woman's  conversation  about 
life. 

For  she  was  serious-minded,  —  there  was  no 
denying  it ;  but  so  was  Jacques.  Society  seldom 
guessed  it,  because  there  was  not  a  more  ridicu- 
lous, noisy,  nonsensical  creature  than  he  when 
he  chose  to  be ;  and  hitherto  this  sort  of  buffoon- 
ery, varied  with  sentimental  tete-a-tetes  arid  flir- 
tations, had  been  all  that  his  social  world  had 
demanded  of  him;  so  he  kept  the  steady  worth 
of  himself  for  business,  flinging  the  froth  of  his 
cleverness  contemptuously  to  womankind.  And 


132  DIANA    VICTRIX 

yet,  with  true  French  contradictoriness,  there  was 
no  one  more  gentle,  more  chivalrous  to  women 
than  Jacques.  It  is  to  be  doubted  whether 
he  would  have  been  attracted  towards  Enid,  if 
he  had  not  lived  in  the  house  with  her;  for  he* 
had  the  conservative  Southern  man's  prejudice 
against  modern  women  and  higher  education, 
and  always  went  out  of  his  way  to  avoid  women 
with  views.  Fortunately,  or  unfortunately  (who 
shall  decide  which?),  he  was  not  permitted  to 
avoid  Enid;  he  was  compelled  to  see  her  and 
talk  with  her  day  after  day.  And  Enid  was  a 
person  who  wore  well.  He  did  not  always  quar- 
rel with  her ;  of tener  than  not  he  agreed  with  her, 
and  delighted  in  f  ollowing  out  her  line  of  thought, 
saying:  — 

"Why,  of  course,  of  course,  I  believe  that. 
Always  have." 

The  kind  of  socialistic  thought  he  had  gained 
from  Hugo  she  modernized  and  developed  for 
him;  and  when  he  at  last  learned  that  she  taught 
this  sort  of  thing  and  lectured  about  it,  instead 
of  being  shocked  and  disgusted,  as  he  ought  in 
all  consistency  to  have  been,  he  was  radiant  with 
enthusiasm  and  respect. 

Then,  too,  the  womanly  side  of  Enid  came  out 
in  her  care  of  Sylvia.  The  little  sacrifices  she 
made,  which  were  really  no  sacrifices  at  all,  in 
staying  at  home  when  Sylvia  was  ill  or  tired, 
appealed  to  him.  Jacques  admired  Sylvia,  as 


MATRIMONY  SERIOUSLY  CONSIDERED      133 

who  did  not?  And,  in  common  with  the  rest  of 
humanity,  he  treated  her  as  something  a  little 
finer  than  mortal  clay;  but  she  did  not  attract 
him,  and,  moreover,  Jocelin  had  assumed  the 
right  to  attend  to  her  small  wants.  As  has  been 
said,  Jacques  was  a  person  of  prejudices,  and  the 
people  whom  Jocelin  singled  out  as  objects  of 
favor  were  likely  to  lose  interest  for  his  step- 
brother. 

It  was  a  pleasure,  after  a  hard  day  spent  in 
trying  to  outdo  one's  fellow-creatures  on  the 
Cotton  Exchange,  to  return  home  and  relax  one's 
mind  by  a  discussion  of  the  brotherhood  of  man. 
Men  —  the  kind  of  commonplace,  half -educated, 
eager-f or-a-dollar  young  men  he  knew  —  did  not 
talk  of  things  like  this.  Theories  and  theorizing 
were  not  customary  among  them;  club  gossip, 
newspaper  politics,  were  the  things  they,  the 
business  men,  talked  about. 

Yes,  Enid  wore  well.  And,  in  addition,  it 
must  not  be  forgotten  that  she  was  a  handsome 
woman. 

•  Meanwhile,  what  was  Enid  making  of  Jacques' 
evident  and  growing  enjoyment  of  her  society? 
Did  she  understand  what  it  meant  ?  It  is  useless 
to  attribute  to  Enid,  at  twenty-eight,  that  obtuse - 
ness  towards  admirers,  that  unconsciousness  of 
being  loved,  with  which  certain  novels,  notably 
those  romantic  ones  translated  from  the  German, 
insist  upon  slandering  their  young  and  sentimen- 


134  DIANA    VICTEIX 

tal  heroines.  Enid  is  too  old  to  come  in  grace- 
fully under  this  canon  of  romantic  fiction.  Be- 
sides, Enid  had  had  too  little  of  this  kind  of  at- 
tention in  her  life,  and  was  too  much  of  a  woman 
not  to  have  felt  mortified  at  not  attracting  it, 
to  be  oblivious  of  its  presence  now.  It  flattered 
her  not  to  have  him  grow  to  take  an  interest  in 
her  because  of  Miss  Campion's  patronage,  but 
because  of  her  own  personality.  At  the  same 
time,  she  never  meant  to  give  him  pain ;  she  did 
not  believe  the  feeling  would  go  deep  enough 
for  pain.  Their  attitude  towards  each  other  was 
devoid  of  all  sentimentality;  they  were  merely 
good  comrades;  and  she  took  care  to  give  him 
such  an  insight  into  her  life,  its  claims,  its  activi- 
ties, its  ideals,  as  should  make  him  clearly  under- 
stand the  minimum  of  attention  she  could  afford 
to  bestow  upon  him. 

Of  the  tumult  of  uncertainty  which  was  grow- 
ing up  in  his  mind  —  above  all,  of  his  feeling 
about  Jeanne,  —  she  had  not  the  slightest  inkling. 
How  could  she  have?  This  was  what  he  was 
most  assiduous  in  concealing.  She  saw  him  jest 
with  the  little  sister,  tease  her,  put  his  arm 
around  her;  she  saw  him  smile  at  her  in  the  dance 
with  brotherly  interest,  and  she  became  more 
and  more  convinced  that  Jeanne's  type  was  not 
the  type  of  woman  he  needed  for  a  wife ;  and  she 
became  more  and  more  sorry  for  Jeanne,  but 
glad  that  he  did  not  guess  Jeanne's  feelings. 


MATBIMONY  SERIOUSLY  CONSIDERED      135 

The  last  thing  that  he  wished  to  confess,  at  pres- 
ent, was  that  he  guessed  Jeanne's  feelings. 

"No,  I  'm  not  in  love  with  any  one  else,"  quoth 
Jacques;  "and  besides,  if  I  were,  it  wouldn't  be 
any  use:  she  wouldn't  have  me;  she's  too  much 
engrossed  in  other  affairs  to  have  time  for  matri- 
mony. Poor  little  girl!  If  I  were  to  fall  in 
love  with  somebody  else,  what  a  brute  I  'd  be ! 
But  if  I  were  in  love  with  somebody  else,  would 
it  be  right  to  marry  —  which  ?  You  are  a  fool, 
Jacques,  a  conceited  fool!  Does  she  ever  show 
the  slightest  jealousy  towards  your  attentions 
to  —  other  women?  See  her  now,  dancing  with 
that  good-looking  young  fellow !  Her  heart  is  as 
light  as  her  little  French  heels.  Mon  Dieu !  why 
does  the  child  look  at  me  like  that?" 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   ASPIRATIONS   OF   OUR   WOMEN 

NOT  the  least  enjoyable  of  the  many  pleasant 
events  of  Jeanne's  winter  were  the  days  spent  in 
Miss  Campion's  old-fashioned  Southern  house  in 
the  American  quarter,  —  a  low  house,  classic  with 
many  pillars;  a  roomy  structure,  spread  prodi- 
gally over  the  ground,  and  set  in  the  midst  of 
a  garden. 

Here  Miss  Campion  abode  grudgingly  for  as 
much  as  seven  months  of  the  year,  with  her 
father,  her  grandmother,  two  younger  brothers, 
and  a  staff  of  colored  retainers.  Her  morning- 
room  opened  on  two  sides,  and  through  three 
French  windows,  upon  the  wide-roofed  gallery, 
and  through  one  door  into  the  great  hall,  which 
was  also  sitting-room  and  library.  In  this  morn- 
ing-room she  read  and  embroidered  and  fretted, 
and  again  took  heart  of  grace;  she  planned  her 
gowns  and  her  little  dinners,  than  which  were 
none  in  New  Orleans  more  charming;  she  re- 
jected her  lovers,  fascinated  her  victims,  and 
dominated  her  little  world.  When  she  would  she 
arose  and  went  to  Europe,  and  that  meant  Paris, 


THE  ASPIRATIONS   OF  OUR    WOMEN       137 

and  that  meant  shops.  When  she  could,  she  lin- 
gered in  New  York,  inventing  excuses  —  the 
weather,  the  horse-show,  the  opening  night  of  the 
Wagner  opera  —  for  staying  away  from  the  pic- 
turesque house  with  the  fluted  and  fawn -colored 
columns,  half  hidden  by  the  palm  shrubs,  the 
sweet  olive  and  jessamine  bushes,  that  grew  in  the 
garden,  and  half  smothered  by  rose-vines  along 
the  southwestern  exposure,  which  was  the  morn- 
ing-room corner. 

But  grandmamma,  a  charming  and  stately  old 
lady  with  white  hair  a  la  Pompadour,  loved  New 
Orleans,  and  papa  had  a  bank  there,  and  a  plan- 
tation down  the  river;  so,  some  time  before  the 
first  snowstorm  arrived  in  the  North,  Miss  Cam- 
pion began  to  loiter  unwillingly  homeward. 

It  was  strange,  this  hatred  of  the  South  and  all 
things  Southern,  in  one  who  was  born  and  bred 
a  Southerner.  The  companions  of  her  girlhood 
were  convinced  that  no  place  in  the  universe  was 
quite  as  gay,  as  hospitable,  as  tasteful,  as  New 
Orleans;  that  no  women  were  quite  as  beautiful 
and  bewitching  as  the  Southern  women,  and  no 
men  quite  as  gallant,  as  entertaining,  as  desira- 
ble, as  the  Southern  men.  But  this  was  not  Miss 
Campion's  conviction. 

The  typical,  the  ordinary  New  Orleans  girl 
serenely  moves  upon  her  way,  convinced  that, 
if  New  York  women  are  richer  and  more  tailor- 
made,  she  has  more  French  chic  and  charm;  and, 


138  DIANA    VICTEIX 

if  Bostonians  are  better  educated,  she  has  more 
intuitive  intelligence  and  wit.  She  knows  all 
these  things  because  she  has  read  them  in  books, 
or  else  somebody  has  told  her  so,  —  somebody 
who  wanted  to  be  agreeable.  The  term  "South- 
ern girl,"  used  in  Northern  society,  suggests  some 
one  who  is  pretty,  piquante,  and  altogether  "good 
fun."  It  is  a  signal  for  the  society  men  to  prick 
up  their  ears  and  look  interested.  Undoubtedly 
one  is  excusable  for  feeling  complacent  under 
such  circumstances.  That  is,  if  complacency  is 
ever  excusable. 

Miss  Campion  scorned  the  self-satisfaction, 
the  naive  rejoicing  in  its  own  charms,  which  her 
native  city  openly  displayed.  She  tried  to  instill 
this  haughty  discontent  into  her  little  sisters,  but 
without  success;  they  were  proving  themselves 
two  as  placid,  self-satisfied,  provincial  little  crea- 
tures as  ever  had  been  born. 

Miss  Campion  went  forth  into  the  great  world 
of  great  wealth  and  great  alliances  and  great 
scandals,  —  went  forth  and  reigned,  saying : 
"This  is  power!  This  is  life!"  And  by  and 
by  came  home  reluctantly  to  the  little  world  of 
little  wealth  and  little  alliances  and  little  scan- 
dals, —  came  home,  and  failed  to  see  that  here 
was  simply  a  distinction  without  a  difference. 
She  dominated  her  little  world,  and  when  she 
looked  upon  it,  it  smiled  and  prostrated  itself 
obsequiously,  and  behaved  with  a  servility  that 


THE  ASPIRATIONS   OF  OUE    WOMEN       139 

would  have  made  any  right-minded  person  scorn- 
ful. And  when  she  looked  away,  it  showed  its 
teeth  and  spit  venom  and  malice-of-envy. 

And  of  course  opinions  differed  as  to  whose 
fault  all  this  might  be. 

She  watched  the  complacent  friends  of  her  girl- 
hood drift  away  into  matrimony,  maternity,  occa- 
sionally into  divorce.  She  watched  other  girls 
come  on  the  social  stage,  and  drift  away  in  their 
turn,  and  she  held  her  own  in  the  presence  of 
younger  smiles  and  fresher  faces.  And  she  took 
satisfaction  in  her  triumph.  But  as  the  years 
passed,  the  eternity  of  the  thing  began  to  pall 
upon  her ;  it  grew  monotonous,  this  ever-repeated 
conquest.  What  to  do  next?  At  thirty  she 
could  not  see  anything  that  was  worth  doing ;  and 
yet,  when  she  looked  in  her  mirror,  she  said :  "  I 
must  do  something  soon !  Why  does  it  all  bore 
me  so?  " 

To  a  woman  of  her  education  and  standard, 
marriage  was  the  only  something  to  be  done  at 
the  present  crisis.  Her  world  had  waited  on  this 
event  for  ten  years,  and  she  had  teased  her 
world,  and  coquetted  with  it,  and  laughed  at  it, 
and  said:  "I  will  whomsoever  I  will,  when  I 
will.  But  as  yet  I  will  not!"  And  this  was  a 
part  of  her  triumph.  But  of  late  it  had  ceased 
to  be  a  triumph;  it  had  become  an  annoyance. 

"Why  do  you  stand  expectant?"  she  fumed; 
"you  bore  me!  Have  done!  I  will  not!  " 


140  DIANA   VICTEIX 

And  still,  in  her  heart  of  hearts,  she  knew  that 
she  would.  The  thing  was  expected  of  her.  She 
must! 

She  thought  of  half  a  dozen  men  she  might 
have  if  she  would,  and  she  wanted  none  of  them. 
And  about  this  time  Enid  and  Sylvia  came  into 
her  life ;  Enid  and  Sylvia,  untroubled  by  lack  * 
of  suitors,  indifferent  to  matrimony,  —  women 
as  old  as  herself,  or  nearly  so,  ten  times  more 
learned,  and  withal  so  childlike,  so  direct  and 
simple.  She  turned  to  them  with  a  hope  of  sal- 
vation. Might  not  she  become  like  them? 
Might  not  she  do  as  they  were  doing?  Was  not 
this  one  way  of  escape?  —  one  way  of  cheating 
her  world?  That  was  the  thing  she  wanted  to 
do  more  than  all,  if  she  dared,  —  cheat  this  im- 
pudent world  that  presumed  to  dictate  and  say 
"You  must!" 

She  took  more  comfort  in  her  friendship  with 
these  two  women  than  she  had  ever  before  taken 
in  the  society  of  her  own  sex.  Enid  and  Sylvia 
kept  their  sarcasms  for  generalizations  instead  of 
for  individuals;  they  made  no  personal  thrusts 
which  she  must  be  on  her  guard  to  parry;  they 
did  not  seek  to  wound  her  by  pretending  to  com- 
pliment. Their  genuine  liking,  and  frankness  of 
friendship,  stirred  in  her  heart  a  tenderness  that 
affected  her  like  a  grief;  and  there  were  nights 
when  she  sobbed  herself  to  sleep  with  tears  as 
passionate  and  pathetic  as  those  of  a  child  who 


THE  ASPIRATIONS  OF  OUR    WOMEN       141 

bears  a  slight  in  silence  stubbornly,  and  responds 
to  unlooked-for  sympathy  with  a  storm  of  weep- 
ing. And  she  a  woman  of  thirty! 

Her  softened  mood  made  her  dangerously  sus- 
ceptible to  the  persistent  wooing  of  Curtis  Baird, 
if  she  had  but  known  it. 

Her  new  friends  spent  long  days  with  her. 
She  took  them  to  drive ;  she  learned  their  ways, 
their  pursuits,  their  enthusiasms,  with  as  much 
care  and  slow  reflection  as  she  would  have  be- 
stowed upon  a  book.  Often  Jeanne  made  one  of 
the  party,  —  Jeanne,  who  seemed  to  Miss  Campion 
a  picture  of  her  own  gay,  careless  youth,  ideal- 
ized, with  the  ambition  left  out.  She  was  very 
tender  to  Jeanne;  she  petted  her;  she  made 
much  of  her.  Curtis  Baird  liked  to  sit  beside 
Miss  Campion  and  note  the  gentle,  preoccupied 
smile  which  came  into  her  face  at  sight  of  the 
happy  little  French  girl.  There  were  several 
people  watching  Jeanne  that  winter.  And 
Jeanne  repaid  Miss  Campion's  kindness  by  a 
girlish  adoration  and  no  criticism. 

The  younger  Campion  girls,  away  at  school, 
were  growing  up  cold,  self-sufficient  little  mor- 
tals, small  comfort  to  their  elder  sister. 

"I  believe  Roma  is  considering  this  Mr.  Baird 
rather  seriously,"  said  Madame  Campion  to  her 
son.  She  and  her  grand-daughter  never  told 
each  other  their  affaires  de  cceur. 

"A  fine    fellow!  "   said   Mr.    Campion,    who 


142  DIANA    VICTR1X 

loved  Roma  dearly,  but  was  at  times  perplexed 
by  her  caprices. 

And  Roma  kept  her  own  counsel  in  the  matter, 
and  would  not  acknowledge  to  herself,  even  for 
a  moment,  that  she  meant  to  accept  him.  And 
yet,  when  the  time  came,  she  did. 

Meanwhile  she  cultivated  her  new  friends,  and 
strove  in  every  way  to  make  them  enjoy  the  social 
atmosphere  in  which  she  moved,  watching  them 
curiously  to  see  if  they  really  did  enjoy  it. 

"And  you  never  expect  to  marry?"  she  said 
once  in  her  direct,  attentive  way. 

Jeanne,  Enid,  and  Sylvia  were  sitting  in  the 
pretty  morning-room,  talking,  in  a  more  or  less 
desultory  fashion,  about  the  future  of  woman. 
Enid,  to  whom  this  question  was  addressed, 
laughed,  it  was  put  with  such  weight  and  solem- 
nity. 

"I  wouldn't  go  so  far  as  to  take  a  solemn  oath 
on  the  subject/'  she  replied  ;  "I  should  be  afraid, 
if  I  did,  I  might  find  that  I  wanted  to  some  day. 
Of  course,  if  it  ever  seemed  the  right  thing  to 
do,  I  should  do  it,  but  I  certainly  don't  want  to 
now.  I  haven't  time;  I  have  too  many  other 
things  to  do,  —  too  many  other  things  I  would 
rather  do." 

"  Really !  "  said  Miss  Campion.  This  " really  " 
was  such  an  attractive  word  when  she  said  it! 
She  added,  with  a  certain  impatience:  "I  have 
been  educated  with  the  idea  that  it  showed  stu- 


THE  ASPIRATIONS   OF  OUR    WOMEN       143 

pidity  to  be  an  old  maid.  My  little  sisters  are 
already  beginning  to  regard  me  as  a  grievance  ; 
it  is  funny  to  see  the  superior  airs  they  give 
themselves  when  I  offer  them  my  opinion.  I  am 
afraid  I  should  feel  as  if  I  hadn't  managed  my 
life  cleverly,  if  I  did  not  marry.  I  should  feel 
ashamed  of  myself.  Absurd,  isn't  it,  to  make 
such  a  confession  as  that?  It  is  refreshing  to 
get  your  point  of  view." 

"I  have  been  sorry  for  married  women  oftener 
than  for  old  maids,"  said  Enid  curtly. 

Jeanne's  eyes  opened  inquiringly.  "You 
mean  they  discover  they  do  not  love  each  other?  " 
she  asked.  "But  then,  that  is  not  the  general 
rule." 

"My  dear  little  Jeanne,  there  are  many  rea- 
sons why  people  should  not  marry  each  other," 
said  Enid. 

There  were  times  when  Jeanne's  innocence 
seemed  to  her  a  criminal  thing,  and  she  said  to 
herself  with  a  kind  of  rage :  — 

"  In  a  year,  perhaps  less,  they  will  let  this  guile- 
less, ignorant,  helpless  creature  marry.  They 
will  somehow  imagine  they  have  rendered  a  service 
to  humanity  by  keeping  her  as  ignorant  of  life, 
and  as  unprepared  for  it,  as  if  she  were  still  a 
babe  in  arms." 

With  the  child  sitting  beside  her,  she  dared  not 
rail  aloud  at  this  ignorance,  but  it  annoyed  her. 

"  Perhaps  even  you  might  do  better  than  marry, 


144  DIANA   VICTEIX 

Jeanne.  You  might  cultivate  that  musical  talent 
of  yours,  you  lazy  little  sprite." 

"Oh,  but  I  don't  think  so!  "  laughed  Jeanne; 
"I  would  rather  think  Miss  Campion's  way.  I 
told  Jacques  what  you  said  about  my  music  that 
time,  and  he  laughed  at  me,  and  said  one  musi- 
cian was  all  we  could  afford  in  the  family,  for 
they  were  expensive  luxuries." 

She  flushed  when  she  had  said  it,  realizing 
that  she  had  been  rather  too  outspoken  about  her 
family  affairs,  and  Miss  Campion  patted  her 
cheek  and  said  caressingly :  — 

"If  I  had  a  daughter,  Jeanne,  I  should  wish 
her  to  be  just  like  you." 

Miss  Campion  had  the  wise  and  weary  wo- 
man's sentimental  liking  for  V ingenue.  She 
wouldn't  have  been  one  herself, — no,  not  for 
worlds !  but  she  liked  to  think  she  regretted  her 
own  initiation  into  the  realities  of  life. 

"And  so  you  want  this  child  to  give  herself 
seriously  to  music?"  she  said,  turning  to  Enid. 
"Do  you  think  she  would  be  any  happier?" 

It  was  Sylvia  who  answered  the  question,  say- 
ing:— 

"No,  I  do  not  think  she  would  be,  after  all. 
Some  of  us  don't  do  a  thing  because  we  want  to 
be  happy,  at  least  consciously  we  don't;  but 
some  of  us  seem  to  have  to  do  the  happy  things, 
—  we  are  meant  to,  —  and  I  believe  Jeanne  was 
meant  to." 


THE  ASPIRATIONS   OF  OUR    WOMEN       145 

It  was  not  usual  for  Sylvia  to  take  part  in 
the  conversation;  she  liked  best  to  be  silent. 
This  readiness  to  reply  always  meant  gain  in 
health. 

"Yes,"  assented  Enid,  "I  really  do  think  so, 
too,  but  I  can't  resist  trying  to  make  Jeanne  a 
bit  discontented  with  herself.  Very  naughty  of 
me,  isn't  it,  Jeanne?" 

"Do  you  also  belong  to  committees,  and  give 
lectures  when  you  are  well,  as  this  busy  woman 
does?  "  asked  Koma  of  Sylvia. 

She  had  not  asked  about  Sylvia's  life  before; 
it  had  impressed  her  as  an  invalid  life,  —  a  life 
that  leaned  upon  Enid's  stronger  vitality  and  fol- 
lowed Enid's  lead. 

"Sylvia  is  going  to  be  the  literary  medium  for 
my  efforts,"  said  Enid.  "Yes,  I  will  tell.  You 
need  not  look  at  me  and  shake  your  head.  We 
are  a  partnership,  Sylvia  and  I.  I  am  the  man 
about  town,  the  planner,  the  promulgator.  Syl- 
via sits  in  the  counting-room  and  cashes  the 
checks,  and  she  is  to  keep  the  record  of  events, 
and  lay  the  affairs  of  the  firm  before  the  public 
in  good  literary  form.  You  really  don't  know 
anything  about  Sylvia.  I  'm  the  showy  person, 
but  Sylvia  takes  all  my  little  theories  and  turns 
them  inside-out  before  my  eyes,  and  clothes  them 
in  metaphor  and  metre." 

"You  write,  then?"  said  Miss  Campion 
eagerly. 


146  DIANA    VICTEIX 

"No!"  said  Sylvia,  gazing  imploringly  at  her 
communicative  friend. 

"She  does!"  cried  Enid.  "She  has  written 
ever  since  she  could  hold  a  slate-pencil." 

Enid  was  in  a  jubilant  frame  of  mind,  and  her 
joy  bubbled  out  in  these  reckless  revealings  of 
Sylvia's  desires. 

Sylvia  was  better.  The  change  was  a  subtle 
one,  but  Enid,  who  knew  her  well,  could  be  sure 
of  it.  It  could  not  be  called  a  physical  improve- 
ment as  yet,  for  the  headaches  and  the  weariness 
were  at  times  intense;  but  if  she  lay  awake  at 
night,  the  effects,  for  some  reason,  were  not  so 
injurious  the  next  day.  Enid  knew  that  some 
interest  other  than  Sylvia's  self  was  at  work  in 
Sylvia's  mind.  What  that  interest  was  she  did 
not  yet  know,  but  she  could  see  that  Jocelin  had 
something  to  do  with  it. 

Another  symptom  of  improvement  was  that 
Sylvia  had  scribbled  more  than  once  of  late ;  Enid 
had  caught  her  at  it.  When  the  poor,  self -tor- 
turing, self -distrustful  mind  could  get  far  enough 
away  from  itself  to  act,  this  wal  always  its  first 
action.  There  was  a  pile  of  scraps  of  paper  in 
Sylvia's  desk  at  home,  —  bits  of  poems,  some  fin- 
ished, some  ending  at  the  middle  of  the  first 
stanza,  as  if  frightened  at  their  own  temerity  and 
discouraged  with  themselves ;  bits  of  disconnected 
thought  in  prose ;  beginnings  of  stories,  the  same 
story  begun  a  dozen  different  ways  and  carried  to 


THE  ASPIRATIONS   OF  OUR    WOMEN       147 

a  dozen  different  lengths  of  incompleteness.  Now 
the  thought  that  stopped  the  vacillating  pen  was, 
"Have  I  a  right,  with  my  feeble  constitution,  to 
tax  my  strength  by  doing  this  thing  which  makes 
my  head  ache?  "  And,  in  trying  to  decide,  the 
headache  would  increase.  Another  time  she 
would  question,  "If  I  had  the  gift,  would  I  not 
write  in  spite  of  myself?  "  And  she  never  seemed 
to  see  how  hard  she  was  trying  to  write  in  spite 
of  herself.  Again  perhaps  she  would  think,  "If 
it  were  written  this  other  way,  would  it  not  be 
better?"  and  she  would  write  and  re-write,  grow- 
ing more  uncertain  of  herself  and  of  her  work 
each  moment,  until  she  was  positively  incapable 
of  finishing  what  she  had  begun. 

And  then  would  follow  days  of  darkness,  in 
which  she  resolutely  withheld  herself  from  writing, 
turned  from  it  with  terror,  wrestled  in  the  night 
with  those  sweet  and  terrible  imaginings  which 
came  to  torture,  to  tempt  her  to  begin  again. 

Sylvia's  great-grandfather,  it  was  said,  wrote 
a  play  in  his  youth,  and  went  through  life  with 
the  stern  belief  that  he  was  to  enter  into  hell-fire 
in  the  end.  They  said  he  had  a  beautiful  face, 
and  eyes  like  Sylvia's.  And  he  reared  his  one 
son  for  the  ministry,  but  the  gift  of  the  father 
descended  to  the  son,  and  the  minister's  sermons 
were  a  snare  to  his  mind,  and  the  beauty  of  his 
prayers  was  to  him  as  the  flesh-pots  of  Egypt; 
he  felt  that  he  delighted  in  them  more  than  he 


148  DIANA   VICTRIX 

delighted  in  his  God,  — which  is  not  to  be  won- 
dered at  when  one  considers  what  kind  of  a  God 
it  was,  —  and  so  he  went  out  of  his  mind,  and 
people  called  him  "the  mad  preacher." 

And  Sylvia's  mother  was  a  pious,  pretty  little 
girl,  who  married  a  well-balanced,  prosperous 
man,  and  gave  him  a  son  like  himself,  but  more 
brilliant.  Three  years  after  the  birth  of  the 
boy,  Sylvia  came  and  the  mother  died. 

Even  a  little  improvement  in  her  friend  set 
Enid's  heart  singing  for  joy,  and  made  her 
almost  reckless. 

"Some  day,"  she  said,  "when  we  both  know 
more  about  it  and  have  lived  in  it,  Sylvia  is 
going  to  write  the  new  novel  of  social  regenera- 
tion. She  can't  do  it  yet,  because  we  don't  know 
enough;  it  hasn't  grown  into  us  enough  for  us  to 
make  it  real,  but  the  life  we  get  by  my  working 
she  is  going  to  hold  fast  in  a  book  and  send  out 
to  convert  mankind." 

Enid  said  this  half  laughing,  with  a  kind  of 
mockery  at  her  own  and  Sylvia's  powers,  but 
there  was  a  reality  in  it  that  surmounted  the  fun. 
This  thing  was  a  conviction  with  her,  and  all 
these  women  knew  it. 

"Sylvia,  may  I  tell?"  she  whispered;  "you 
know  you  said  you  would  tell  yourself  some  time, 
and  it  ought  to  be  soon." 

Then,  without  waiting  for  permission,  she  said 
with  another  laugh :  — 


THE  ASPIRATIONS   OF  OUR    WOMEN       149 

"  While  Sylvia  is  working  up  her  style  to  the 
proper  pitch  for  the  great  undertaking,  she  does 
other  things."  Enid  did  not  tell  of  all  those  sad, 
unfinished  scraps  of  thought.  "She  does  other 
things,  and"  — 

"And,"  interrupted  Sylvia,  reaching  out  to 
take  Jeanne's  hand,  and  speaking  slowly,  softly, 
as  was  her  wont,  "if  this  is  to  be  told,  as  this 
naughty  person  insists,  I  shall  tell  it  myself. 
Listen,  Jeanne.  I  made  a  little  verse  the  other 
night  in  bed,  and  I  want  you  to  put  it  to  music, 
and  then  I  want  Monsieur  Jocelin  to  teach  you 
how  to  write  it  down.  I  want  him  to  do  it.  I 
think,  Jeanne  dear,  he  gets  tired  and  sorrowful 
sometimes,  and,  if  you  were  to  ask  him  to  teach 
you,  it  would  please  him;  we  all  of  us  feel  better 
when  we  keep  ourselves  busy,  you  know." 

She  glanced  involuntarily  at  Enid  and  blushed, 
as  if  acknowledging  that  she  had  been  in  the 
wrong  in  her  own  idleness. 

"But  you  are  to  write  it,  you  know,  Jeanne; 
he  is  to  teach  you,  not  to  do  it  for  you." 

Jeanne  looked  astonished  and  said  nothing. 

"And  now  let  us  hear  this  verse,"  said  Miss 
Campion. 

So  Sylvia  gave  it :  — 

"  The  young  Spring  came  to  the  world 

And  found  me, 
And  put  her  arm  around  me ; 
And  close,  like  rose-petals  curled 
Up  under  a  sheath  still  furled, 


150  DIANA    V1CTEIX 

My  heart  at  the  heart  of  the  young-  Spring's  heart 
Beat  its  music  out ;  and  the  world 
Crowned  me." 

Enid's  eyes  were  shining  and  full  of  tears,  and 
she  went  over  and  put  her  arms  around  Sylvia. 

"She  never  did  such  a  thing  before!"  she 
cried  eagerly.  "She  never  would  say  any  of  her 
things  to  any  one  before,  no  matter  how  much 
they  begged." 

And  Sylvia  smiled  at  her,  with  only  a  shadow 
of  fear  in  the  dark  eyes,  and  said :  — 

"But  if  Monsieur  Jocelin  is  to  occupy  himself 
in  teaching  her  how  to  do  it,  of  course  I  would 
have  to  tell  about  it." 

They  all  had  some  of  the  pretty,  flattering 
speeches  to  make  concerning  it,  which  one  makes 
to  one's  amateur  literary  friends,  and  after  a  while 
Jeanne  slipped  away,  carrying  with  her  the  lines, 
which  Enid  wrote  on  the  back  of  an  envelope, 
hurriedly,  at  Sylvia's  dictation. 

Then  the  talk  drifted  to  model  tenements  and 
absentee  landlordism,  and  such  serious  matters,  as 
it  had  a  habit  of  doing  when  Jeanne  was  not  by. 
And  Roma  was  shocked  and  indignant  to  find 
herself  called  an  absentee  landlord,  and  tried  to 
defend  her  position,  without  knowing  why  she  wras 
called  on  to  defend  it,  and  also  without  any  desire 
to  change  her  comfortable  habits  of  life.  But 
now  and  then  they  stopped  their  chatter  for  a 
moment  to  listen  to  the  soft,  tentative  notes  of 


THE  ASPIRATIONS  OF  OUR    WOMEN     151 

the  piano  across  the  hall,  and  the  low  humming 
of  Jeanne's  voice  as  she  experimented  with  Syl- 
via's poem. 

Then  they  would  return  to  the  discussion. 

"You  say  you  are  bored;  you  have  nothing  to 
do;  you  cannot  be  interested  in  people  just  be- 
cause they  are  people,"  said  Enid  to  Koma;  "but 
only  try  it !  Do  things  without  being  interested, 
and  perhaps  the  interest  will  grow." 

The  dead-weight  of  boredom  which  had  settled 
down  upon  this  woman  seemed  a  hopeless  thing 
to  lift.  Enid  felt  the  inefficiency  of  her  own 
tugs  at  the  burden,  and  recognized  that  she  was 
inefficient  chiefly  because  she  herself  had  not  yet 
found  out  what  it  meant  to  be  bored. 

"They  are  interested.  They  care  for  life; 
they  are  not  ennuyees,"  thought  Miss  Campion. 
"I  will  go  to  Boston  next  autumn.  I  will  try  to 
find  out  what  the  interest  is.  Anyway,  I  need 
not  marry  if  I  do  not  wish  to.  Yes,  I  will  study 
the  things  they  are  doing;  it  will  at  least  be 
something  new.  I  will  visit  them  in  their  model 
tenement  in  the  slums." 

But  within  ten  days  she  had  engaged  herself 
to  Curtis  Baird. 


CHAPTER   III 

THE   CARNIVAL 

IN  February,  when  Winter  is  clasping  the  North 
in  his  tightest  and  whitest  and  longest  and  last 
embrace,  the  best  days  of  the  year  come  down  to 
dwell  in  New  Orleans,  the  fair-weather  days  of 
the  short  Southern  spring.  They  are  a  kind  of 
Indian  summer  put  the  wrong  way  round  of  the 
calendar.  Even  the  Southerners  enjoy  them,  for 
"there  is  sure  to  be  a  cold  snap  in  March,  you 
know." 

The  dew-fresh  February  air  has  a  taste  with 
a  tang  to  it,  and  is  without  the  languor  and  the 
thick,  sultry  prophecies  of  April.  The  sunshine 
is  just  struggling  out  of  its  winter  pallor;  the 
city  is  full  of  people,  who  stare  and  smile  curi- 
ously, and  try  to  get  snapshots  at  courtyards  and 
praline -venders.  The  shop  windows  are  gay  with 
French  organdies,  with  bright-colored  silks  and 
gauzes.  Newspaper  offices,  public  buildings,  even 
commercial  houses,  put  forth  a  strange,  foreign- 
looking  flag,  consisting  of  three  diagonal  stripes, 
purple,  yellow,  and  green,  with  a  large  crown  in 
the  middle  on  the  yellow  stripe.  This  is  the 


THE  CARNIVAL  153 

royal  flag  of  the  King  of  the  Carnival.  The  news- 
papers are  full  of  his  coming;  cablegrams  appear 
in  the  foreign  dispatches  announcing  the  arrival 
of  the  Royal  Fleet  at  Suez,  Tamatave,  Colombo, 
and  other  parts  equally  romantic  and  remote. 
Proclamations  are  published,  signed  "Bathurst, 
Lord  Chamberlain,"  commanding  all  loving  and 
loyal  subjects  to  make  ready  with  rejoicing  for 
the  coming  of  his  Majesty  Rex,  —  King  Rex, 
as  the  children  call  him.  Mardi  Gras  is  coming, 
Mardi  Gras  is  coming!  The  world,  the  weather, 
and  the  people  are  all  one  laugh  for  joy. 

Early  in  January,  the  pompous  and  magnilo- 
quent invitations  to  the  balls  begin  to  be  distrib- 
uted by  polite  but  secretive-looking  messengers, 
who  carry  lists  of  names,  and  are  careful  to  make 
sure  they  have  come  to  the  right  house.  And 
later,  through  the  post,  the  tiny,  mysterious 
dance-cards  begin  to  arrive,  the  biddings  to  the 
favored  ones  who  are  elected  to  dance  the  first, 
or  the  third,  or  the  second,  or  the  fourth  dance 
with  such  and  such  a  masquer  at  such  and  such 
a  ball. 

For  ten  days  before  the  great  day,  the  Mardi 
Gras,  the  fat  day  of  rejoicing,  the  carnival  rages. 
All  galleries  overhanging  the  street  must  be 
propped,  by  order  of  the  law.  Rex  is  careful  for 
the  safety  of  his  loving  and  loyal  subjects,  and 
the  holiday  crowd  twists  in  and  out  good-na- 
turedly among  the  rough  timbers  and  temporary 


154  DIANA    VICTEIX 

pillars,  The  king  must  pass  the  City  Hall,  and 
opposite,  in  the  gay  green  square  with  its  quaintly 
whitewashed  tree -trunks,  rows  of  rough  wooden 
seats  are  set  up,  one  above  the  other,  circus-fash- 
ion. 

The  first  balls  of  the  carnival  —  those  which 
have  no  preliminary  street  pageant  —  open  with 
a  series  of  tableaux.  After  these,  crowded  close 
upon  one  another,  come  four  processions  and 
three  balls,  all  taking  place  between  Monday 
morning  and  —  properly  speaking  —  Wednesday 
morning. 

When  this  rich  and  varied  programme  was 
unfolded  to  Enid  and  Sylvia,  they  gasped  and 
cried  out :  — 

"We  never  can  go  through  all  that!  " 

"You  can't,  anyway!  "  said  Enid  decisively. 

"Ah,  don't  you  be  a  dragon,  now!"  said 
Jacques.  "I  would  n't  let  her  bully  me,  Miss 
Sylvia.  Of  course  you  can  do  it.  Nobody  gets 
tired  in  carnival  week  till  it 's  all  over.  You 
mustn't  miss  it.  You  won't  see  anything  like 
it  anywhere  else.  It 's  a  magnificent  sight  and 
a  unique  one.  Besides,  everybody  says  this  will 
be  the  most  gorgeous  carnival  we  've  had  yet. 
You  owe  it  to  yourself  not  to  miss  it,  after  com- 
ing all  this  way." 

"Yes,  Miss  Bennett,"  drawled  Baird;  "when 
Dumarais  can  go  so  far  as  to  abandon  his  cus- 
tomary modesty  and  reserve  concerning  the  attri- 


THE  CARNIVAL  155 

butes  of  his  native  town,  and  indulge  in  enco- 
miums of  this  extreme  character,  you  may  trust 
me  there  is  something  in  it." 

Everybody  laughed,  Jacques  loudest  of  all. 
Curtis  Baird  had  found  this  outspoken  self -ap- 
preciation one  of  the  charms  of  the  Southern 
people. 

"They  are  as  pleased  as  a  parcel  of  children 
when  you  praise  them,"  he  reflected  often,  smil- 
ing to  himself.  "They  perk  and  prink  them- 
selves, and  ask  strangers  to  compliment  them  on 
their  climate,  their  hospitality,  and  their  pretty 
girls,  with  as  much  ingenuousness  as  a  baby  of 
six  who  invites  her  friends  to  admire  her  new 
silk  stockings.  It  is  delightful!  I  never  saw  a 
people,  confessedly  a  society  people,  so  entirely 
free  from  ennui.  Here  they  are,  throwing  them- 
selves into  this  preposterous  carnival  make-believe 
with  the  abandon  of  children  at  a  dancing-school 
festival.  You  wouldn't  find  a  Northern  city 
capable  of  tossing  dignity  to  the  winds,  and  kick- 
ing up  its  civic  and  social  heels  in  this  jolly 
fashion.  It  takes  imagination  to  do  this  sort  of 
thing,  and  that 's  what  this  people  has  as  a  peo- 
ple. It  is  the  Southern  temperament,  I  suppose." 

And  Mr.  Curtis  Baird,  with  human  contradic- 
toriness,  had  proceeded  to  single  out  for  special 
adoration  that  Southern  woman,  of  all  others, 
least  Southern  in  speech  and  tendencies,  least 
imaginative  and  volatile  in  temperament,  and, 


156  DIANA   V1CTEIX 

what  was  more  important  under  the  circum- 
stances, least  satisfied  with  her  own  city  and  her 
own  people.  It  amused  him  to  hear  her  rail, 
and  he  drew  her  on  to  say  sharp  things  about 
New  Orleans,  its  complacency  and  narrowness. 
He  ought  to  have  been  troubled  concerning  the 
incompatibility  of  making  New  Orleans  his  home 
and  this  scornful,  self-willed  lady  his  wife,  but  he 
wasn't.  He  had  never  had  to  choose  which  of 
two  good  things  he  would  have;  he  had  always 
taken  both,  and  he  expected  to  take  both  in  this 
case.  He  knew,  of  course,  that  Roma  had  a 
right  to  know  what  her  future  life  promised  to 
be,  before  she  accepted  him,  and  he  intended  to 
wait  till  his  business  arrangements  were  formally 
announced  before  offering  himself  to  her,  but, 
somehow,  he  did  n't.  And  when  Roma  accepted 
him,  on  the  Sunday  before  Mardi  Gras,  she  did 
not  know  that  the  dinner  he  was  to  give,  and 
which  she  had  helped  him  to  plan,  was  given  in 
order  to  announce,  to  those  few  most  likely  to  be 
interested,  that  he  and  Jacques  Dumarais  were 
going  into  partnership. 

He  felt  a  little  troubled  when  he  went  away 
from  her  Sunday  night,  —  only  a  little,  however, 
for  he  had  heard  women  rail  before,  and  had 
never  attached  much  importance  to  their  vehe- 
ment expressions  of  like  and  dislike.  Moreover, 
he  consoled  himself  by  telling  her  jokingly  the 
next  day  that  after  Mardi  Gras  she  might  want 


THE    CARNIVAL  157 

to  break  her  engagement,  and  she  replied,  also 
laughing,  that  in  that  case  they  would  not  an- 
nounce it  till  after  the  crisis. 

If  Baird  had  been  more  of  a  business  man,  he 
would  have  realized  the  importance  of  the  two 
steps  he  was  taking,  but  it  did  not  occur  to  him 
that  his  arrangement  with  Jacques  could  in  any 
way  hamper  his  movements.  He  never  had  been 
hampered,  and  he  expected  to  take  his  wife  away 
and  keep  her  away  as  long  as  she  liked.  So 
what  few  qualms  he  had,  through  leaving  her  so 
long  in  ignorance  of  his  plans,  were  easily  stifled. 

He  did  not  find  out  for  some  time  how  angry 
she  was,  and  how  seriously  she  did  debate  break- 
ing that  engagement.  But  she  was  proud  ;  she 
was  ashamed  to  betray  to  him  how  little  she  really 
loved  him, —  although  he  was  quite  aware  that 
she  had  accepted  him  chiefly  from  bewilderment. 
Finally,  as  the  case  was  with  him,  so  it  was  with 
her ;  the  exigencies  of  the  situation  had  very  little 
meaning  for  her,  and  in  addition  she  fell  into 
that  fatal  error  of  believing  that  if,  after  her 
marriage,  she  found  they  really  must  live  in  New 
Orleans,  she  should  be  able  to  persuade  him  to 
dissolve  the  partnership.  For  of  one  thing  she 
was  fully  convinced,  —  that,  whatever  her  own 
feelings  might  be  towards  him,  he  loved  her. 

So  she  let  the  matter  drift,  and  made  her  prep- 
arations for  her  wedding.  And  he,  his  little 
panic  abated,  felt  more  sure  of  her  than  he  ought 


158  DIANA    VICTRIX 

to  have  felt,  and  made  many  promises  about 
going  to  Europe,  and  spending  winters  in  New 
York,  promises  which  Jacques,  armed  with  the 
rectitude  of  business  responsibility,  and  innocent 
of  any  strain  in  Baird's  marital  relations,  com- 
pelled him,  later,  to  break.  In  the  end,  it  was 
hard  to  tell  whether  he  or  his  wife  had  been  most 
at  fault.  If  she  had  chosen  to  break  with  him 
after  the  dinner,  she  might  have  done  so,  but  she 
always  said :  — 

"How  could  I  with  any  self-respect?  " 

This  dinner  added  one  more  festivity  to  the 
burden  which  their  hospitable  friends  insisted 
upon  imposing  on  the  two  Northern  women;  and 
Sylvia,  longing  to  show  her  gratitude  for  the 
kindness,  tried  to  insist,  with  the  irresolution 
and  lack  of  judgment  of  an  invalid,  that  she 
should  be  allowed  to  see  everything.  But  the 
dinner  proved  to  be  the  last  straw  for  Enid,  and 
she  took  the  importunate  and  obtuse  Jacques  into 
a  corner  and  laid  down  the  law  to  him  vigorously. 

"She  can't  do  it,  and  I  don't  intend  she  shall. 
You  don't  know  anything  about  what  she  can 
stand  and  what  she  can't.  You  are  a  great, 
strong,  normal  man ;  you  're  so  unconscionably 
healthy  that  you  're  not  fit  to  judge  for  people 
who  are  delicate,  and  I  won't  have  you  exciting 
her  and  making  her  fret." 

"Yes  'm,"  said  Jacques  meekly. 

"She  is  doing  very  well  ;   she   sleeps    better, 


THE  CARNIVAL  159 

and  her  appetite  is  pretty  good,  and  her  head 
does  n't  bother  her  more  than  half  the  time. 
And  I  'm  not  going  to  have  her  break  down  and 
lose  the  little  she's  gained,  not  for  all  the  Mardi 
Gras  in  Christendom." 

"Yes  'm,"  said  Jacques. 

"I'm  going  to  everything,"  —  Jacques'  face 
brightened,  —  "and  you  must  n't  think  we  do  not 
appreciate  your  kindness  in  getting  all  these  in- 
vitations for  us,  — I  know  it  must  be  you.  But 
she  is  not  going  to  everything." 

Here  Jacques'  ridiculous  exaggeration  of  meek- 
ness was  too  much  for  Enid,  and  she  laughed. 

"  And  —  and  —  you  may  decide  which  ones  you 
want  her  to  see  most,  and  we  '11  try  to  arrange 
it." 

So  it  was  finally  settled  that  Sylvia  should  go 
to  the  Atlanteans'  Ball,  should  see  the  proces- 
sions, and  should  have  Curtis  Baird's  dinner,  and 
a  peep  at  Comus. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  insist  on  our  going  to 
the  Atlanteans',"  Enid  objected,  "when  you  say 
you  have  to  go  out  of  town  that  day,  and  won't 
be  able  to  take  us  there." 

"That  is  only  another  instance  of  my  self-sac- 
rificing disposition,"  explained  Jacques.  "You 
will  learn  to  appreciate  me  after  a  while.  This  is 
a  new  society,  and  I  hear  it  is  very  fine;  and 
besides,  you  all  have  dance-cards  for  that  ball." 

"We  have  for  most  of  the  others,  too,"  said 


160  DIANA    VICTRIX 

Enid.  "I  really  think  it  is  very  queer  that, 
although  you  have  never  had  to  go  off  on  busi- 
ness before,  you  should  be  obliged  to  go  on  that 
day  of  all  others.  Why  can't  you  postpone  it?" 

"Impossible!"  said  Jacques;  and  then,  as  if 
meditating  ways  and  means  in  his  mind,  "Per- 
haps I  shall  be  able  to  get  back  by  the  night 
train,  and  I  '11  hurry  around  in  time  to  bring  you 
home." 

Jeanne  gave  a  delightful  chuckle,  and  hugged 
him  and  said :  — 

"Please,  Miss  Enid,  you  must  go  to  this  one; 
you  will  be  sorry  if  you  don't!  " 

And  gradually  Enid  began  to  observe  that 
most  of  the  young  men  she  met  had  engagements 
out  of  town  or  were  going  to  stag  dinners  on  one 
or  other  of  the  mysterious  nights,  and  they  all 
said :  — 

"You  know  they  poke  us  off  upstairs  till  after 
the  masquers  have  had  their  fun,  so  what 's  the 
good  of  going  early?  " 

And,  finding  that  no  one  else  asked  questions, 
Enid  and  Sylvia  ceased  asking  them,  also. 

Jacques  was  angelic  in  smoothing  the  way  for 
Sylvia.  He  fully  retracted  his  former  insistent 
statements  with  unblushing  ardor. 

"After  all,  Miss  Sylvia,  I  wouldn't  try  to  go 
to  Momus,  if  I  were  you  ;  of  course  it 's  one  of 
the  prettiest,  but  if  you  go  to  the  Atlanteans' 
you  will  get  a  good  idea  of  all  those  early  balls. 


THE  CARNIVAL  161 

Keep  your  strength  for  the  dinner.  Baird  is 
setting  great  store  by  that  dinner,  and  he  's  such 
a  good  fellow  it  would  be  a  pity  to  disappoint 
him." 

In  his  own  room  Jacques  said  to  himself: 
"Wasn't  she  just  ready  to  take  my  head  off, 
though?  Awfully  handsome.  Gee!  but  does  n't 
she  love  that  girl,  — yes!  " 

Something  curiously  like  tenderness  came  into 
his  bright  gray  eyes  as  he  thought  about  Enid's 
devotion  to  her  friend. 

Jocelin  escorted  them  to  the  Atlanteans'  Ball. 

Jocelin  came  in  "very handy"  about  this  time, 
for  he  belonged  to  no  association,  had  no  stag 
dinners  to  attend,  and  no  urgent  business  engage- 
ments in  the  country.  Perhaps  he  would  have 
liked  to  have,  for  he  was  more  than  ordinarily 
pessimistic  and  prone  to  take  a  hopeless  view  of 
his  life. 

"If  I  could  get  him  to  promise  to  keep  himself 
straight,  and  to  take  care  of  his  voice,  he  would 
keep  his  promise,"  thought  Sylvia. 

Jocelin  was  so  gentle,  so  impressionable,  so 
easily  led,  and  withal  so  humble!  A  promise, 
he  said,  was  a  sacred  thing.  He  had  never 
broken  a  promise,  but  he  did  not  feel  that  he 
could  enter  lightly  into  compacts;  he  had  too 
deep  a  knowledge  of  his  own  nature;  he  had  a 
dread  of  making  promises,  lest  he  should  break 
them.  All  this  he  said  in  the  abstract,  and  with- 


162  DIANA    VICTRIX 

out  reference  to  any  special  promise;  for  when 
Sylvia  tried  to  particularize,  to  draw  him  into 
a  compact,  there  was  no  one  more  obtuse,  more 
evasive,  more  eel-like  in  wriggling  away  from 
definite  agreement,  than  Jocelin. 

His  dislike  to  committing  himself  made  Sylvia 
respect  him,  because  she,  also,  had  this  same 
terror  of  promising  to  do  a  thing.  But  it  made 
her  misjudge  him,  too ;  for  she  drew  her  conclu- 
sions from  knowledge  of  her  own  heart,  not  Joce- 
lin's.  He  took  all  the  pity  she  chose  to  give 
him,  but  as  for  living  differently,  —  that  was 
another  matter. 

A  gentle  and  interesting  melancholy  pervaded 
his  manner  during  those  carnival  days.  He 
walked  through  the  midst  of  the  merry-making 
with  the  air  of  one  who  tolerates  such  things  for 
the  sake  of  other  people,  but  who  has  no  personal 
interest  in  them.  This,  at  least,  was  his  deport- 
ment at  home  and  with  Sylvia.  That  he  might 
be  different  when  out  of  her  sight  had  not  crossed 
her  mind.  And  if  he  was  different,  it  was  not 
because  he  meant  to  deceive.  Nobody  was  ever 
less  a  conscious  villain  than  Jocelin. 

So  he  took  the  three  women  to  the  Atlanteans' 
Ball,  and  handed  them  over  to  the  reception 
committee,  and  spent  the  rest  of  the  evening 
wandering  over  the  opera  house  cursing  his  luck. 
And  the  reception  committee  took  Enid  and 
Sylvia  and  Jeanne,  and  put  them  down  in  the 


THE  CARNIVAL  163 

seats  just  under  the  gallery,  where  all  the  other 
favored  young  women  who  were  to  dance  with 
masquers  were  seated.  The  parquet,  which  had 
been  boarded  over  for  dancing,  stretched  out 
ahead  to  the  curtain,  and  all  around  the  pretty 
girls  —  such  pretty  ones,  some  of  them !  —  were 
chattering  and  smiling,  and  pulling  out  their 
gauze  sleeves,  and  nodding  to  acquaintances,  and 
examining  their  programmes,  and  behaving  just 
as  pretty  girls  behave  in  their  best  gowns  all  the 
world  over.  Sometimes  the  words  one  caught 
were  French,  sometimes  English. 

"  How  nice  it  would  be  to  be  called  Lu/w,  with 
the  accent  on  the  last  syllable! "  said  Enid,  refer- 
ring to  an  excited,  black-haired  little  debutante 
who  had  been  talking  to  Jeanne  over  the  heads  of 
three  other  people,  gesticulating  and  laughing, 
and  pretending  to  be  in  great  distress  of  mind 
lest  her  masquer  should  forget  that  he  had  ever 
sent  her  an  invitation. 

Several  "black  coats,"  as  they  were  called,  to 
distinguish  them  from  the  Atlanteans,  had  al- 
ready come  up  and  put  their  names  down  on  the 
lower  half  of  Jeanne's  programme.  She  was  to 
dance  all  of  the  masquers'  dances,  and  her  less 
fortunate  friends  were  congratulating  her. 

The  band  played  at  intervals;  Sylvia  began  to 
look  a  little  tired;  the  electric  lights  around  the 
queen's  box  shot  into  being  once  or  twice  to  make 
sure  of  themselves ;  and  at  last  the  queen  and  her 


164  DIANA    VICTRIX 

maids  appeared,  and  after  a  short  delay  the  cur- 
tain rose  on  the  first  tableau. 

"And  there  are  millions  and  millions  of  girls 
who  never  experience  this  sort  of  thing,  and 
never  will,"  thought  Enid. 

Until  this  winter,  she  had  never  had  the  simple 
joyousness  of  a  society  girl's  life  so  clearly  put 
before  her.  She  had  begrudged  wealth,  books, 
comforts,  for  her  poor  people;  she  had  wanted 
to  give  them  music  and  art,  but  she  had  never 
before  desired  for  them  mere  well-bred,  civilized, 
butterfly  enjoyment.  She  thought  of  her  young 
garment-workers,  —  years  older  than  these  girls 
in  experience,  but  no  older  as  far  as  birthdays 
go,  —  and  she  wanted  to  turn  all  these  pretty 
creatures  out  of  the  opera  house,  and  let  their 
serious,  tired  sisters  in.  The  girls  Enid  knew 
were  the  respectable,  hard  -  working  poor  ones, 
who  liked  better  things,  and  could  not  afford  to 
take  cheap  amusements,  even  innocently,  because 
of  their  own  reputations.  Enid  wanted  to  give 
them  gay  dancing  and  tableaux  for  once.  She 
had  never  known  herself  so  light-minded,  so  11011- 
educative,  before. 

The  pageant  on  the  stage  changed  mistily, 
trap-doors  came  up,  drop-curtains  came  down, 
and  the  happy,  light-hearted  crowd  around  said 
"Oh!  "and  "Ah!" 

And  then  the  masquers  began  to  stream  down 
from  their  various  posts  on  the  stage,  and  to 


THE  CARNIVAL  165 

march  two  and  two  around  the  floor,  while  the 
king  and  queen  sat  on  their  thrones  at  the  back 
of  the  stage  in  all  the  glory  of  electric  lights 
and  tinsel.  In  another  minute  the  front  of  the 
parquet  floor  was  filled  with  a  crowd  of  quaint, 
capering  figures,  Jeanne  was  disappearing  from 
view  on  the  arm  of  a  great  ice -ghost,  one  of  the 
floor  committee  was  taking  Sylvia  up  to  a  respect- 
ful sea-dragon,  while  a  lively  nymph  with  a  tri- 
dent was  executing  a  Highland  fling  on  a  line 
with  Enid's  vision,  and  pointing  at  her  and 
saying:  — 

"Yes,  you !  —  you !     Come  on !  " 

And  presently  she  and  the  sea-nymph  were 
dancing  the  Lancers  in  the  same  set  with  Jeanne 
and  Sylvia  and  Eoma.  In  the  middle  of  the 
visiting  figure  the  sea-nymph  said,  "Oh,  I  for- 
got! "  and  proceeded  to  pin  a  gold  souvenir 
brooch  on  her  shoulder,  thereby  throwing  that 
figure  of  the  Lancers  into  confusion  for  eight 
people,  who  apparently  thought  it  the  greatest 
joke  in  the  world.  When  he  took  her  back  to 
her  seat,  the  sea-nymph  gave  her  a  lock  of  his 
hair,  as  he  expressed  it,  in  the  form  of  a  long 
strand  of  imitation  seaweed  twined  with  pearls. 

Later  in  the  evening,  when  she  and  Sylvia 
were  upstairs  in  a  box  resting,  watching  the 
dancers,  and  drinking  the  lemonade  which  Joce- 
lin  procured,  Jacques  appeared,  grinned  in  at 
them,  and  mopped  his  face,  saying :  — 


166  DIANA   VICTEIX 

"Wasn't  I  clever  to  get  here  so  early?  I 
almost  lost  my  train,  and  I  ran  most  of  the  way 
here  from  the  house." 

Indeed,  he  looked  as  if  he  had,  for  his  face  was 
scarlet  and  his  hair  was  wet.  Later  he  said :  — 

"  That  little  sister  of  mine  has  had  a  fine  time ; 
she  hasn't  been  back  to  her  chair  once  since  the 
masquers  came  on  the  floor." 

Enid  wanted  to  ask  him  how  he  knew  this,  if 
he  had  only  just  come  in,  but  she  thought  it  was 
not  quite  fair  to  tease  him. 

Jocelin  took  Sylvia  home  early,  and  Jacques 
and  Enid  danced,  and  waited  around  till  Jeanne 
was  ready  to  go.  Once,  in  their  peregrinations 
over  the  opera  house,  they  came  upon  Baird 
and  Miss  Campion  comfortably  ensconced  in  a 
baignoire  in  the  "seconde." 

"We're  consulting  about  that  dinner,"  said 
Baird,  with  a  good-natured  smile  of  dismissal. 

"Yes,  so  I  thought,"  said  Jacques,  and  he 
added  to  Enid  as  she  drew  him  away :  — 

"They've  begun  their  housekeeping  a  little 
ahead  of  time.  I  wonder  if  she  knows  why  he  's 
giving  that  dinner? " 

"I  haven't  told  her,"  said  Enid. 

"I  wouldn't  give  two  bits  for  his  chances  with 
her  if  she  does,"  Jacques  remarked  decisively. 
And  then  they  went  downstairs  again  to  the 
floor. 

Mardi  Gras,  when   it  came,  was  a  fragrant, 


THE  CARNIVAL  167 

breezy  day,  and,  although  Roma  Campion  sent 
her  carriage  early  for  Enid  and  Sylvia,  the  two 
women  found  the  streets  through  which  they 
drove  already  alive  with  masquers.  There  were 
children  in  parti-colored  garments,  darkies  in< 
ticking  coats  and  stove-pipe  hats,  wagon-loads  of 
men  and  women  with  banjos,  guitars,  concertinas, 
and  Jew's-harps.  A  wild  horde  of  ragamuffins, 
bold  in  their  bravery  of  turkey  feathers  and  red 
paint,  kept  the  carriage  waiting  five  minutes 
while  they  performed  a  war-dance  in  the  middle 
of  the  road.  Nobody  made  any  objections,  or 
told  them  to  move  on.  Miss  Campion's  impres- 
sive colored  coachman  sat  upon  his  box  with  im- 
perturbable amiaoleness  until  the  young  rascals 
got  ready  to  clear  the  way. 

It  is  not  the  elite  of  the  city  who  dress  up  in 
masques  and  run  about  the  streets ;  it  is  the  chil- 
dren and  the  "people,"  —  close  kinsmen  these. 
The  fancy  costumes  are  not  always  elegant,  the 
jokes  are  not  always  refined,  but  the  gentleness 
of  sweet  charity  is  abroad,  and  everybody  laughs 
and  loves  his  neighbor.  The  very  policemen  on 
the  street  corners  "smile  peace." 

Enid  and  Sylvia  spent  a  quiet  morning  in  Miss 
Campion's  garden.  Curtis  Baird  was  there  part 
of  the  time,  Jacques  dropped  in  for  half  an  hour, 
other  people  came  and  went  sociably.  Several 
old  ladies,  friends  of  Miss  Campion's  grand- 
mamma, sat  on  the  pillared  gallery  in  a  row, 


168  DIANA   VICTEIX 

waiting  for  the  procession.  When  it  came,  every- 
body took  a  chair  and  ran  down  across  the  lawn 
to  the  tall  iron  fence,  and  everybody,  old  and 
young,  mounted  a  chair  and  hung  over  the  fence, 
and  nodded  and  waved  flirtatiously  to  the  masquers 
on  the  floats,  and  dodged  to  escape  the  showers 
of  hard  candy. 

After  the  procession  had  passed  and  the  lap- 
luncheon  had  been  served,  Enid  and  Sylvia  were 
taken  home  through  the  surging,  good-natured 
crowds  to  rest  before  the  dinner. 


CHAPTER   IV 

CURTIS   BAIRD   GIVES   A   DINNER 

THE  dinner  had  to  be  an  early  one  on  account 
of  the  evening  festivities;  so,  promptly  at  six 
o'clock,  Jacques  marshaled  his  party  into  Mo- 
reau's.  Not  downstairs,  where  the  floor  is 
neatly  sanded  and  the  tables  are  small  and  white, 
but  above  in  a  private  room,  where  there  were 
enough  gas-jets  blazing  to  have  illuminated  three 
rooms  instead  of  one,  and  where  there  was  a  table 
laid  for  ten,  a  tablecloth  and  napkins  crimped 
and  crinkled  marvelously,  and  an  armchair  at 
every  place,  because  that  is  the  fashion  at  Mo- 
reau's. 

Curtis  Baird  asked  Madame  Dumarais  to  honor 
him  by  taking  the  end  of  the  table,  and  every 
one  sat  down  with  a  rustle  and  a  buzz,  —  ma- 
dame,  with  monsieur  on  one  side  and  Jacques  on 
the  other;  Curtis  Baird  opposite  her  with  Roma 
and  Jeanne ;  Enid  next  to  Jacques,  Jocelin  next 
to  her,  then  Roma;  Sylvia  next  to  monsieur;  and 
between  her  and  Jeanne  a  youth  of  the  beard- 
less, susceptible  kind,  invited  to  balance  the 
table,  —  a  fact  which  he  was  fortunately  incapa- 
ble of  grasping. 


170  DIANA   VICTBIX 

Everybody  talked  at  once.  And  there  were 
raw  oysters,  and  gumbo  file  that  hung  all  gluey 
and  thick  from  the  spoon,  and  was  full  of  oysters 
and  crabs  and  shrimp,  and  had  to  be  eaten  with 
rice,  of  course.  And  there  was  court-bouillon  of 
red  snapper  with  any  amount  of  spices  in  the 
tomato  -  sauce.  And  there  was  terrapin  stew. 
And  there  was  jambalaya,  that  was  rice  and 
beans  and  chopped  ham  and  several  other  things 
and  pepper,  especially  pepper,  all  in  one  deli- 
cious hodge-podge.  And  there  was  woodcock 
with  salad,  — and  everybody  knew  the  salad-dish 
had  been  rubbed  just  once  with  a  piece  of  garlic, 
but  it  was  excellent  salad  notwithstanding.  And 
there  was  white  wine  and  red,  and  champagne. 
And  there  was  biscuit  glace  in  blocks,  with  ex- 
actly the  same  amount  of  strawberry  ice  at  one 
end  of  every  block.  And  finally  there  was  the 
brulot,  which  came  in  a  bowl  on  a  platter,  and 
was  made  of  herbs  and  spices  and  something  al- 
coholic, and  was  ladled  out  into  cups.  But  that 
was  afterwards,  and  that  was  the  smallest  part 
of  the  pleasure  of  it,  for  first  Curtis  Baird  stood 
up  and  said :  — 

"Friends,  — I  have  dwelt  among  you  —  a  little 
space,  —  and  you  have  called  me  brother.  I  have 
eaten  of  your  jambalaya,  and  found  it  good.  I 
have  drunk  of  your  filtered  rain-water "  (there 
was  a  shout  of  derisive  laughter  from  the  com- 
pany), "and  that,  too, — was  good.  I  have" 


CUETIS  BAIRD  GIVES  A  DINNER        171 

He  glanced  sidewise  down  at  Roma,  lazy  mischief 
lurking  in  the  corner  of  his  eye.  She  smiled,  and 
her  lips  said  voicelessly :  — 

"If  you  like." 

Poor  Roma!  if  she  had  but  known  what  was 
to  come  after ! 

"  I  have  —  made  love  to  —  your  women,  —  and 
they  have  found  —  me  not  altogether  —  unpleas- 
ing.  I — I  speak  for  one  of  them."  (Great  ap- 
plause.) "Friends,  —  I  have  come  to  stay.  The 
firm  name  is  '  Baird  &  Dumarais.'  Here's  to 
Jacques ;  may  he  never  desire  a  better  partner  — 
than  myself,  — ladies  always  excepted." 

Enid  and  Monsieur  Dumarais  had  known  what 
was  coming,  but  the  rest  of  the  company  had 
expected  simply  the  announcement  of  the  engage- 
ment, and  there  was  a  gasp,  and  then  a  clapping 
and  shouting  and  clinking  of  glasses.  Every- 
body at  one  end  of  the  table  shook  hands  with 
Jacques,  and  everybody  at  the  other  end  shook 
hands  with  Curtis  Baird.  Miss  Campion's  hand 
was  unpleasantly  cold,  but  a  rigid  society  train- 
ing is  worth  a  good  deal  in  an  emergency  of  this 
kind. 

After  Miss  Campion  had  been  toasted,  and 
Mr.  Baird,  the  head  waiter  came  forward,  turned 
down  the  gas,  and  applied  a  lighted  match  to  the 
brulot,  and  all  the  bowl  and  the  platter  were 
set  on  fire,  and  there  was  a  many-colored  flame 
playing  over  the  surface  of  the  liquid.  Every- 


172  DIsiNA    VICTRIX 

body  said  "Ah!"  and  watched  it  in  silence  a 
moment,  till  Baird  cried :  — 

"  A  song,  —  a  song !  Miss  Castaigne !  Mr. 
Jocelin!" 

And  back  and  forth  across  the  table  Jeanne 
and  Jocelin  sang  one  of  the  old  Creole  folk-songs, 
verse  and  refrain,  verse  and  refrain,  sometimes 
one  voice,  sometimes  the  other,  sometimes  both 
together,  —  a  queer,  crooning,  monotonous  mel- 
ody. And  the  flame  in  and  around  the  bowl 
leaped  higher  and  higher.  First  Jacques  fell  in 
with  the  refrain  and  the  chant,  then  Roma  Cam- 
pion took  it  up,  then  Monsieur  Dumarais,  — 
backwards  and  forwards,  up  and  down,  crooning, 
chanting,  swaying,  till  they  all  stopped,  laughing 
and  breathless,  and  the  flame  was  at  its  height, 
leaping  and  curling  madly. 

Then  Baird  said :  — 

"Come,  Jocelin,  give  us  your  best!  " 

Jocelin  sat  to  the  left  of  the  blazing  bowl, 
Sylvia  diagonally  opposite  to  the  right  of  it,  and 
Jocelin  tossed  his  head  back  and  laughed.  Mon- 
sieur Dumarais  bent  his  brows  in  an  involuntary 
frown,  and  madame  began  to  crumble  a  macaroon. 
Jacques,  apparently  unconcerned  and  at  ease, 
nevertheless  contrived,  without  attracting  the 
attention  of  the  company,  to  make  an  imperative 
sign  to  the  waiter  behind  Jocelin's  back. 

It  was  not  loud,  that  laugh  of  Jocelin's-,  it  was 
only  three  low  ripples,  rich  and  thick  in  his 


CURTIS   BAIRD   GIVES  A   DINNER         173 

throat,  the  kind  of  sound  that  flows  across  a  lis- 
tener's conscience  and  wipes  off  the  value  of  the 
moral  law. 

It  seemed  to  Sylvia  that  her  heart  turned  over 
in  her  breast. 

Jocelin's  face  was  a  devil's  face  on  the  other 
side  of  the  weird  flames,  —  a  lean,  brown,  long- 
nosed  devil,  with  all  the  blood  of  him  in  that  red 
flower  of  a  mouth  beneath  the  faint  black  mous- 
tache, and  all  the  fire  of  him  in  his  eyes.  How 
they  blazed  and  beckoned,  and  said,  "I  am  Sin," 
those  eyes!  And  all  the  mad  lost  soul  of  him 
was  in  the  sweet,  seductive  voice. 

He  lay  back  in  his  chair  for  a  moment,  think- 
ing and  humming  softly.  Sylvia  watched  the 
smile  on  his  lips,  and  Sylvia's  soul  stirred  through 
her  body  and  felt  the  flesh  of  her,  and  rejoiced, 
and  leaned  out  of  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  my  God !  It  is  not  pity,  —  and  I  am 
glad!  Jocelin,  I  am  glad!  " 

On  her  own  lips  a  smile  trembled  to  dawn,  but 
she  did  not  know  that  she  smiled,  and  her  eyes 
had  forgotten  to  look  away  from  Jocelin's  face. 

This  was  how  it  was  when  Enid  glanced  across 
the  table  and  saw  her.  The  doctor's  words  came 
back  to  Enid.  "Get  her  interested  in  something 
outside  herself.  Make  her  forget  to  think  that 
she  is  thinking." 

Well,  the  thing  was  done. 

"I  cannot  bear  it!  "  wailed  Enid  in  her  heart. 


174  DIANA    VICTRIX 

"  Was  there  no  other  way  than  this  ?  It  is  not 
true!" 

"Ah!  I  have  it!"  said  Jocelin.  "Madrigal 
Triste." 

He  held  his  wine-glass  aloft,  and  his  hand  was 
unnaturally  steady.  There  was  only  a  little  wine 
in  the  glass,  but  the  waiter  appeared  to  be  ob- 
livious of  the  fact.  Jocelin 's  eyes  were  wells  of 
light,  and  his  singing  voice  laughed,  while  be- 
neath the  gay  song,  hardly  heard,  were  tears,  the 
devil's  tears. 

"  Que  m'importe  que  tu  sois  sage  ?  " 

he  sang.  The  far-away  look  of  thought  went 
out  of  his  eyes,  and  he  turned  to  Koma,  sitting 
beside  him,  and  laughed  into  her  face. 

"Damn  the  fellow!  "  muttered  Curtis  Baird. 

But  Miss  Campion  did  not  notice.  She  had 
seen  young  men  in  the  initial  stages  of  exhilara- 
tion before.  She  was  thinking  of  something 
even  more  disagreeable. 

"  Que  m'importe  que  tu  sois  sage  ? 
Sois  belle !  et  sois  triste !     Les  pleurs 
Ajoutent  un  charme  au  visage, 
Comme  le  fleuve  au  paysage  ; 
L'orage  rajeunit  les  fleurs." 

He  sang  it  to  a  mocking  little  melody  which 
Jeanne  had  composed  for  some  other  song. 

"  Je  sais  que  ton  cceur,  qui  regorge 
De  vieux  amours  de'raeine's, 
Flamboie  encor  comme  une  forge, 
Et  que  tu  couves  sous  ta  gorge 
Un  peu  de  1'orgueil  des  damne's." 


CURTIS  BATED   GIVES  A  DINNER        175 

After  this  his  voice  seemed  to  leap  forward,  with 
no  pause  between  the  stanzas,  and  his  eyes  turned 
dreamily  —  was  it  by  accident?  —  to  Sylvia. 

"  Mais  tant,  ma  chere,  que  tea  r§ves 
N'auront  pas  re'fle'te'  1'Enfer, 
Et  qu'en  un  cauchemar  sans  trSves, 
Songeant  de  poison  et  de  glaives, 
Eprise  de  poudre  et  de  fer," 

"  N'ouvrant  a  chacun  qu'avec  crainte, 
De"chiffrant  le  malheur  partout, 
Te  convulsant  quand  1'heure  tinte, 
Tu  n' auras  pas  senti  I'e'treinte 
De  I'irre'sistible  Ue'gout, 

"  Tu  ne  pourras,  esclave  reine 

Qui  ne  rn'aimes  qu'avec  effroi, 

Dans  1'horreur  de  la  nuit  maLsaine 

Me  dire,  1'ame  de  cris  pleine  : 
'  Je  suis  ton  e"gale,  0  mon  Roi ! '  " 

He  smiled  exultantly  and  looked  around  on  the 
company. 

"I  think  that  will  do!"  said  Monsieur  Du- 
marais.  Baudelaire  was  not  one  of  his  favorites. 

"Yes,  that  is  the  last  stanza,"  observed  Joce- 
lin  airily;  "I  omitted  some  of  them,  perhaps  you 
may  have  noticed." 

"And  now,  Miss  Jeanne,"  interrupted  Baird, 
fearing  lest  Jocelin  should  offer  to  sing  the  stan- 
zas which  he  had  omitted,  which  were,  after  all, 
the  least  objectionable,  —  "now,  Miss  Jeanne, 
where  is  that  new  song  I  heard  you  practicing 
not  long  ago  ?  " 


176  DIANA   VICTEIX 

"Yes,  Jeanne,"  said  Jacques  from  the  other 
end  of  the  table,  "sing  the  new  one;  sing  Miss 
Sylvia's  song." 

Sylvia  blushed,  and  everybody  clapped,  and 
Jocelin  smiled  across  at  her,  a  tender,  protecting- 
smile,  an  entirely  unnecessary  smile. 

"I  can  sing  it  better  standing,"  said  Jeanne, 
and  she  arose. 

The  flames  were  beginning  to  die  down  a  little, 
but  they  caught  the  yellow  of  her  hair  and  bur- 
nished it,  and  sank  into  her  innocent  great  eyes, 
and  the  shadows  played  about  her  white  young 
throat.  Once  again  in  Jeanne's  life  her  friends 
were  to  see  her  face  looking  out  from  flame ;  once 
again,  at  the  end  of  her  winter,  the  very  end,  — 
dear  Jeanne ! 

"Turn  up  the  gas,"  said  Jacques  abruptly; 
"this  song  needs  light." 

So  the  brulot  and  the  gas  burned  together, 
and  Jeanne's  rosy  color  came  back  to  her  cheeks 
in  the  brightness.  She  began  with  a  joyous 
lilt:- 

"  The  young  Spring  came  to  the  world 

And  found  me ! 
And  put  her  arm  around  me. 

And  close  —  close  —  close  —  like  rose-petals  curled 
Up  under  a  sheath  —  a  sheath  still  furled, 
My  heart  at  the  heart  of  the  young  Spring's  heart  — 

My  heart  —  my  heart  — 
My  heart  at  the  heart  of  the  young  Spring's  heart 

Beat  its  music  out,  — 

Beat  its  music  out  — 


CURTIS  EAIRD   GIVES  A  DINNER        177 

And  the  world  — 
Crowned  me  !  —  crowned  me !  — 

Crowned  —  me ! 

And  the  world,  —  and  the  world  — 
Crowned  me  !  ' ' 

Dear  little  Jeanne,  whom  nobody  ever  crowned, 
—  alas,  nobody,  nobody! 

Her  voice  rang  out  in  a  perfect  paean  of  joyous- 
ness  at  the  last.  And  oh,  such  applause  as  was 
heard  in  that  private  room  at  Moreau's! 

Sylvia's  health  was  drunk,  and  Jeanne's  health 
was  drunk,  and  in  the  confusion  Jeanne  found 
a  moment  to  lean  over  to  Sylvia  penitently  and 
whisper :  — 

"I  am  sorry  we  have  not  had  time  to  write 
the  music  yet,  Jocelin  and  I.  You  do  not 
mind?" 

In  the  end,  at  Jacques'  suggestion,  the  gas 
was  turned  down  again,  and  in  the  dim  light  of 
the  rose  and  green  and  golden  flames  they  all 
stood  up,  joined  hands  in  a  ring  around  the  table, 
and  sang  "La  Marseillaise"  at  the  very  top  of 
their  voices.  The  waiter  came  in  in  the  midst 
of  it  and  cried :  — 

"Messieurs,  —  mesdames,  —  the  procession!  " 

When  they  heard  him,  they  picked  up  any- 
body's wraps  and  rushed  out  of  the  windows 
upon  the  gallery.  Enid  wanted  to  get  to  Sylvia, 
but  Jacques  prevented  her  by  almost  garroting 
her  with  a  fascinator  and  calling  in  her  ear :  — 


178  DIANA    VICTIUX 

"Come  on!  Come  on!  Don't  you  hear  the 
music?" 

Jocelin  came  to  Sylvia's  side  of  the  table  and 
put  a  shawl  around  her  gently,  and  dropped  a 
silk  handkerchief  over  her  head. 

"Wait!"  he  said  at  the  window,  and  pushed 
her  lightly  back  with  one  hand,  while  with  the 
other  he  lifted  the  window-sash  higher.  She 
stood  almost  within  his  arms  for  the  moment, 
and  she  wondered  if  he  felt  her  heart  beat  when 
he  touched  her. 

"He  can  never  know!"  she  said  to  herself, 
and  she  cried  out  against  herself  to  tell  him. 

"Ah,  bah!"  said  Jacques,  leaning  over  the 
gallery;  "it  is  a  block  off,  and  it  has  stopped. 
We  might  have  finished  that  last  song  easily. 
Where  is  my  father?" 

He  dived  back  into  the  darkened  room. 

"Come  out,  mon  pere,  come  out  and  stand  by 
me  while  I  tell  you  about  them !  " 

Monsieur  smiled  with  love  and  pride. 

"No,  my  son.  I  have  seen  others;  I  know 
how  they  look.  Go  and  enjoy  yourself."  And 
then,  staying  him :  — 

"Jacques,  have  you  ever  spoken  to  Mademoi- 
selle Enid  of  Jocelin?  Of  what  he  —  of  how 
untrustworthy  he  is?" 

"No!"  said  Jacques  sharply,  very  sharply; 
"I  do  not  see  the  necessity  for  warning  Miss 
Enid  against  Jocelin." 


CURTIS  BAIED  GIVES  A  DINNER        179 

Jacques  could  not  see  the  gleam  of  amusement 
that  flashed  over  his  father's  face,  followed  swiftly 
by  a  fixed  seriousness. 

"Set  your  mind  at  rest,  my  son,"  he  said;  "I 
did  not  mean  that.  It  is  her  friend.  I  cannot 
see,  but  many  voices  speak  to  me.  I  sat  next  to 
Mademoiselle  Sylvia  at  table  just  now.  She 
is  thrown  much  with  Jocelin,  as  it  happens,  and 
Jocelin  is  very  lovable.  I  think  Mademoiselle 
Enid  should  know  something  of  the  life  of  the 
boy.  She  will  see  best  how  to  employ  that  know- 
ledge. It  is  not  for  us  to  warn  her  friend." 

"Jacques!  Jacques!"  called  Curtis  Baird. 
"They  are  beginning  to  move  again." 

"I  will  tell  her,  my  father,"  said  Jacques,  and 
went  out  through  the  window  again  to  Enid's 
side.  He  still  felt  as  if  some  one  had  said 
"Boo!  "  to  him  suddenly  and  made  him  jump. 


CHAPTER   V 

BETWEEN   FRIENDS 

CANAL  STREET  was  blazing  with  illuminations 
of  all  colors,  the  banquettes  were  massed  with 
people,  and  the  neutral  ground  in  the  centre  be- 
tween the  two  avenues  was  crowded  with  lines  of 
mule-cars.  Down  the  street  the  brilliant  pageant 
moved  with  majestic  slowness,  in  a  cloud  of 
light.  The  floats  swayed  slightly,  the  figures 
moved  gracefully  back  and  forth.  The  car  with 
Comus  upon  it  passed  the  restaurant,  and  Comus 
bowed  and  waved.  Other  cars  followed.  Dra- 
gons, giants,  Eastern  temples,  magic  gardens, 
demons,  angels,  dwarfs,  fairies,  drifted  past.  A 
number  of  the  men  on  the  different  floats  knew 
Jacques  and  spoke  to  him,  and  waved  to  Jeanne. 
One  called  out :  — 

"The  third  dance  is  mine,  you  know!"  and 
threw  her  a  heavy  brass  armlet  hung  with  jin- 
gling bangles. 

Another  shook  his  mace  at  Jacques  and 
said :  — 

"Nice  floor  committee  you  are!  Why  are  n't 
you  down  at  the  opera  house? " 


BETWEEN  FBIENDS  181 

When  the  last  float  had  passed,  there  was  a 
rush  and  a  scramble  for  one's  own  wraps,  and  a 
clattering  down  the  stairs  at  Moreau's. 

Sylvia  was  going  home  with  monsieur  and 
madame. 

"Here!  we'll  put  them  in  the  carriage  and 
then  run  for  it;  that's  the  simplest  way,"  said 
Jacques. 

Jocelin  bowed  at  the  carriage  door  and  went 
off  up  Canal  Street.  He  was  evidently  not  go- 
ing to  the  ball. 

Miss  Campion's  grandmamma,  who,  with  her 
glistening  white  hair  and  high-bred,  clear-cut 
features,  was  handsomer  than  many  a  younger 
woman,  was  to  meet  the  others  at  the  ball  and 
chaperon  them.  So  they  started  two  and  two 
across  the  crowded  street,  —  Baird  and  Roma, 
Jacques  and  Enid,  Jeanne  and  the  beardless 
youth. 

Jacques  was  a  master-hand  at  getting  through 
a  crowd;  he  had  a  way  of  saying  "Look  out!" 
in  a  blood-curdling,  fire-engine  sort  of  voice,  when 
he  approached  a  specially  dense  mass,  and,  after 
the  scattering  to  right  and  left  which  invariably 
ensued,  he  and  his  companions  fled  rapidly  down 
the  alley  thus  obligingly  opened  for  them. 

Enid  had  one  masquer's  dance,  but  after  that 
she  was  free,  and  she  found  Jacques  waiting  for 
her  by  the  door  of  the  parquet. 

"You  are  tired,"  he  said  quietly;  "I  will  call 
Jeanne." 


182  DIANA    VICTRIX 

"No,  don't  do  that!"  she  begged.  "Let  the 
child  enjoy  her  evening.  Her  dances  are  all  en- 
gaged, and  Lent  begins  to-morrow.  She  will 
not  have  another  chance  for  some  time." 

So  Jacques  took  her  up  to  the  proscenium  box 
in  the  "seconde,"  on  the  opposite  side  from  the 
Royal  Box  and  above  it. 

"Now  go  away  and  dance  your  own  dances;  I 
will  stay  here  quietly  till  Jeanne  is  ready." 

"I  have  no  dances  engaged,"  he  answered;  "I 
am  getting  to  be  an  old  fellow,  you  know.  I  've 
done  this  thing  so  often,  the  novelty  has  rather 
worn  off.  If  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  sit  here, 
too.  Don't  try  to  talk!" 

They  looked  at  the  gay  house  and  down  upon 
the  heads  of  the  swaying  dancers.  Jeanne's  head 
gleamed  there,  and  once  she  turned  her  face 
straight  up  at  them  and  smiled. 

"It  seems  a  little  strange  to  me,  Mr.  Du- 
marais,"  said  Enid,  "that  you,  with  your  fond- 
ness for  music  and  your  fondness  for  Jeanne, 
should  never  have  insisted  upon  her  turning  her 
musical  gift  to  some  account.  It  might  be  useful 
to  her  some  day.  One  can  never  tell  what  straits 
one  may  be  reduced  to ;  and  if  she  ever  needed  it, 
though  I  trust  she  never  will,  this  power  of  mak- 
ing songs  might  help  her  to  turn  quite  a  pretty 
penny,  even  though  her  talent  should  prove  too 
slight  a  thing  to  bring  her  what  we  call  fame. 
Her  voice,  too,  is  lovely,  and  —  and  —  forgive 


BETWEEN  FRIENDS  183 

me  if  I  seem  to  meddle,  but  I  am  fond  of  her, 
and  we  Boston  women,  who  haven't  as  many 
men  to  depend  upon  as  the  girls  have  down  here, 
learn  early  the  need  of  being  able  to  take  care  of 
ourselves.  Jeanne,  of  course,  has  you  now,  but 
if  anything  were  to  happen  to  you?  It  seems 
cruel  to  leave  such  a  pretty  child  unprovided  for. 
And  if  you  were  to  marry?  She  might  find  it 
irksome  to  be  dependent,  —  she  isn't  your  own 
sister,  after  all,  and  even  own  sisters  object  to 
being  a  burden  upon  their  brothers." 

"I  thank  you,"  said  Jacques. 

Perhaps,  if  he  had  analyzed  his  sensations,  he 
would  have  discovered  that  he  was  chiefly  grate- 
ful for  the  fact  that  she  had  not  taken  it  for 
granted  that  he  must  marry  Jeanne. 

"I  thank  you.  I  believe  it  is  quite  true  that 
we  Southern  men,  with  all  our  surface  chivalry, 
do  not  always  give  our  women  a  fair  chance. 
But,"  he  added,  smiling  down  on  the  yellow 
head,  "it's  the  very  mischief  and  Tom  Walker 
to  make  that  butterfly  of  a  creature  study.  She 
does  n't  like  it,  you  know,  —  never  did.  Jocelin 
worked  at  his  voice,  and  she  has  constancy  in 
her,  too,  bless  her  heart !  but  it  all  comes  out  in 
loving  other  people.  I  don't  believe  any  other 
brother  ever  had  a  more  faithful  little  sister  than 
I  have." 

"Oh,  you  poor,  blind,  stupid  man!"  reflected 
Enid. 


184  DIANA    VICTRIX 

"  She  and  Jocelin  are  like  the  two  sides  of  a 
coin,"  Jacques  continued.  "There  are  the  same 
characteristics  in  the  metal,  only  they  appear 
differently  under  the  die.  And  she  is  the  best 
side.  You  evidently  take  it  for  granted  that 
Jocelin  could  not  step  into  the  breach,  if  I  were 
put  out  of  the  way?  " 

Poor  Enid  was  in  no  mood  to  say  polite  and 
pleasant  nothings  about  Jocelin,  but  she  con- 
trolled her  bitterness  and  merely  replied :  — 

"  He  seems  to  me  too  delicate  in  health  to  be 
relied  upon  as  a  prop  in  an  emergency." 

"A  good  deal  of  it  is  his  own  fault,"  said 
Jacques,  "and  yet,  in  a  way,  I  suppose  he  could 
not  help  it.  He  is  maman's  favorite,  and  she 
did  not  know  how  to  manage  a  boy.  He  was 
too  near  my  own  age  for  me  to  be  able  to  inter- 
fere. I  took  him  out  into  the  courtyard  and 
pummeled  him  well  on  one  occasion,  when  we 
were  boys,  and  he  had  been  rude  to  my  father, 
but  that  was  the  best  I  could  do.  And  then 
there  was  the  scandal  about  the  opera  singer. 
He  has  no  pride.  Perhaps  you  have  heard  that 
story  mentioned?  " 

"He  confessed  it  very  sweetly  to  Sylvia,  I  be- 
lieve." 

It  hurt  her  to  say  those  words. 

"Humph!"  said  Jacques,  "I'll  bet  he  did. 
He  was  ashamed  to  come  home  for  a  while,  and  he 
got  on  pretty  well  till  he  got  homesick  and  said 


BETWEEN  FRIENDS  185 

he  must  come  home.  I  wrote  him  he  couldn't 
come,  but  he  drew  on  me  in  New  York  and  — 
he  came  home  anyway.  At  least,  that  was  the 
way  I  explained  it  to  maman.  I  received  a 
letter  from  a  New  York  man  with  whom  our  firm 
has  dealings,  and  he  said,  *  According  to  your 
instructions  I  have  cashed  the  draft  for  your 
brother.'  I  was  thunderstruck!  And  that  day 
Jocelin  arrived  in  New  Orleans.  I  forced  him 
to  tell  me.  They  were  not  my  instructions,  but 
he  had  signed  my  name  to  them.  And,  under 
the  circumstances,  what  could  I  do?  Of  course 
I  honored  the  draft  for  maman 's  sake.  He  said 
he  could  not  remain  there ;  he  was  dying  of  home- 
sickness. He  has  no  stamina.  The  only  grace 
he  ever  had  was  his  voice,  and  he  has  wasted 
that.  I  have  no  sympathy  with  that  sort  of 
thing.  But  you  might  as  well  talk  to  a  canary- 
bird  as  to  Jocelin." 

Jacques  paused,  looked  down  at  the  dancers, 
and  then  turned  resolutely  to  Enid. 

"Mademoiselle,  it  may  be  that  I  am  going  to 
displease  you  by  what  I  say.  Like  you,  I  do  not 
wish  to  meddle.  I  hope  you  will  pardon  me. 
Jocelin  is  very  gentle,  he  is  lovable,  I  believe, 
but  he  is  not  capable  of  making  a  woman  happy." 

Enid  instinctively  moved  her  chair  so  as  to 
bring  herself  back  out  of  sight  of  the  opera  house. 
She  did  not  look  at  Jacques ;  she  sat  erect,  and 
her  nostrils  quivered  slightly. 


186  DIANA    V1CTIUX 

Jacques  felt  alarmed,  but  he  was  not  one  to 
pause  when  he  had  convinced  himself  that  a  thing 
must  be  done. 

"  Your  friend  "- 

Her  face  when  he  said  these  two  words  made 
him  hold  his  breath  for  a  second,  such  a  flash 
shot  from  her  eyes,  such  scorn  and  anger  wreathed 
about  her  lips. 

"Your  friend,"  he  faltered  a  second  time, 
"thinks  no  evil.  But  she  is  sensitive.  Jocelin 
is  attractive  to  women.  Of  course  you  know  her 
best.  Pardon  me!" 

Her  clear  brown  eyes  seemed  to  cut  straight 
through  him.  The  majesty  of  the  head  upon  the 
splendid  throat  made  him  ache.  Her  white  breast 
rose  and  fell,  but  she  kept  her  lips  close  shut  for 
a  long  moment,  and  Jacques  began  to  have  a 
strained,  buzzing  sensation  in  his  head. 

"I  thank  you  for  your  solicitude  concerning 
my  friend.  You  honor  her  by  your  inferences," 
she  said  at  last,  and  the  sound  of  her  voice  com- 
pleted the  sum  of  his  wretchedness. 

"You  mistake  me,"  he  answered;  "I  meant 
no  disrespect  to  Miss  Sylvia." 

"But  you  tell  me  your  brother  is  weak,  worth- 
less, a  scoundrel,  and  hint  that  my  friend  —  my 
friend  is  attracted  towards  him." 

"I  said  he  was  gentle  and  lovable." 

"  And  that  my  friend  is  sensitive !  You  must 
be  aware,  Mr.  Dumarais,  that  your  brother's 


BETWEEN  FRIENDS  187 

faults  are  much  more  apparent,  even  to  a  dull 
person,  than  his  virtues  are.  What  is  it  you 
expect  me  to  do?  Do  you  think  I  will  insult  my 
friend  by  telling  her  that  I  have  no  confidence  in 
her  judgment  and  self-control  ?  You  should  know 
me  better  than  to  suppose  that  any  one  so  dear 
to  me  as  Sylvia  would  be  one  to  whom  I  could 
say  such  things,  to  whom  it  would  be  necessary 
to  say  such  things.  Yes,  it  is  perfectly  true  that 
I  know  her  best.  You  should  have  saved  your 
warning,  Mr.  Dumarais,  until  you  knew  me  bet- 
ter. I  do  not  listen  patiently  to  a  disparagement 
of  my  friend." 

This  constant  repetition  of  "my  friend"  stung 
Jacques'  heart  as  the  blows  of  a  whip.  Her 
beauty,  her  championship  of  Sylvia,  her  ingrati- 
tude towards  him  for  his  well-meant  warning,  all 
maddened  him. 

"You  shall  not  speak  to  me  like  this!"  he 
cried;  "you  know  you  are  unjust.  You  know 
I  do  not  mean  to  insult  you,  —  I,  of  all  people 
in  the  world.  You  turn  my  words  against  me. 
I  have  made  a  mistake,  but  no  mistake  justifies 
you  in  punishing  me  so  cruelly.  Am  I  to  be  the 
only  one  who  is  to  receive  no  consideration  from 
you  ?  Is  it  all  for  her  ?  —  for  her,  whom  not  one 
breath  of  mine  has  harmed  ?  Your  friend  I  your 
friend!  —  but  what  of  me?  Have  I  not  some 
claim  upon  the  rights  of  friendship,  or  do  you 
keep  your  pity  and  justice  only  for  your  women 


188  DIANA   V1CTEIX 

friends  ?  Do  you  think  it  has  given  me  pleasure 
to  hurt  you  ?  Would  I  not  rather  cut  my  tongue 
out  than  give  you  pain?  And  for  a  mere  ima- 
ginary insult  to  a  woman  whom,  of  all  women 
save  you,  I  should  least  desire  to  injure,  if  only 
because  —  because  you  are  so  fond  of  her.  For 
only  a  chimera,  you  grind  me  beneath  your  heel 
with  such  contempt!  " 

Poor  Jacques !  poor  Jacques ! 

He  was  jealous.  Enid,  in  the  midst  of  her 
own  heartache,  recognized  that  and  was  sorry  for 
him.  The  sense  that  he  was  not  to  blame  smote 
her  with  remorse.  She  knew  that  she  had  turned 
her  wrath  upon  him  for  the  sake  of  shielding 
Sylvia,  and  that  he  did  not  deserve  it.  She 
knew  that  she  had  been  perversely  cruel,  but  she 
had  not  stopped  to  think  how  it  might  hurt  him. 
And  now  she  tried  to  make  amends. 

"I  am  sorry  I  have  hurt  you,"  she  said  gently. 
"But  don't  you  understand?  Don't  you  under- 
stand ?  It  was  not  quite  safe  to  tell  me  that  the 
one  who  is  dearest  to  me  in  all  the  world  was  in 
danger  of  giving  her  love  to  another,  —  and  such 
a  despicable  other! " 

"Do  you  mean  it  made  you  jealous?"  said 
Jacques,  quieting  down,  and  speaking  in  a  half- 
derisive  tone,  as  if  he  felt  his  question  too  im- 
probable to  admit  of  being  asked. 

Enid  flushed,  but  she  felt  that  this  was  no  time 
for  half -truths. 


BETWEEN  FRIENDS  189 

"Yes,  I  mean  just  that,"  she  said. 

"But,"  he  replied,  looking  rather  amused,  "it 
is  n't  the  same  thing  at  all.  There  would  n't  be 
any  disloyalty  in  her  doing  it.  Friendship  is  one 
thing,  love  is  another.  It  is  my  experience  that 
a  love  affair  makes  a  woman  rather  more  interest- 
ing to  her  women  friends,  —  gives  them  some- 
thing to  talk  about  together.  All  women  expect 
to  marry." 

"I  do  not  expect  to,"  said  Enid.  "My  life 
has  other  work  in  it.  And  my  friend  is  sufficient 
for  me." 

"You  don't  expect  a  man  to  believe  that,  do 
you?  "  said  Jacques.  He  felt  nettled. 

"I  expect  you  to  believe  it,"  she  answered. 
"I  want  you  to  try  to  understand  it,  so  you  will 
be  able  to  appreciate  why  I  was  so  angry  just  now. 
If  you  loved  a  woman,  you  would  not  listen  to 
such  an  insinuation  any  more  than  I  do." 

"Your  loving  a  woman  and  my  loving  a  woman 
are  entirely  different  matters,"  said  Jacques. 

"You  do  not  understand,"  she  persisted. 

"I  understand  enough!  "  he  answered  bitterly. 
"You  have  made  part  of  your  meaning  very  clear, 
—  that  I  am  not  worth  so  much  as  your  little 
finger  to  you,  compared  with  your  friend." 

Enid  meant  to  do  the  kindest  thing,  and  his 
vehemence  frightened  her,  so  she  said:  — 

"In  one  way  that  is  quite  true." 

He  sat  still  for  a  moment,  and  when  he  spoke 
his  voice  was  not  angry. 


190  DIANA    VICTRIX 

"It  shall  not  be  true,"  lie  said. 

Just  then  some  one  pounded  on  the  door,  and 
Jeanne's  voice  cried:  — 

"Jacques!  —  let  us  in,  Jacques!  The  door 
has  caught  on  the  inside." 

And  back  upon  his  mind,  like  a  blow,  came 
the  thought :  — 

"But,  if  I  were  in  love  with  somebody  else, 
would  it  be  right  to  marry  —  which? " 

Jeanne,  Curtis  Baird,  Roma  Campion,  and  the 
beardless  youth  trooped  into  the  box. 

"Awfully  deaf,  you  two!"  said  Baird.  "We 
knocked  and  knocked." 

"We  were  discussing  our  friends,"  said  Enid 
quietly.  Her  color  was  still  bright.  "That  is 
always  an  absorbing  occupation." 

"Rex  is  coming,  and  we  thought  we  could  see 
better  up  here,"  Jeanne  announced. 

The  three  women  crowded  to  the  front  of  the 
box  and  looked  down.  They  watched  the  Royal 
Party  move  slowly  up  to  the  back  of  the  stage. 
They  watched  the  stately  courtesy  of  Comus  and 
his  queen  towards  the  merry  monarch  who  had 
condescended  to  grace  their  festivities  with  his 
presence.  They  watched  the  Royal  Lancers 
dance  with  courtly  precision  and  admirable  man- 
agement of  mantles  and  trains.  And  who  shall 
say  how  much  they  saw  of  it?  Even  Jeanne? 
This  was  the  last  ball  of  the  season,  and  Jacques 
had  not  offered  to  dance  with  her. 


BETWEEN  FRIENDS  191 

"I  shall  go  now,"  said  Miss  Campion;  "I  am 
tired,"  and  in  truth  she  looked  rather  white. 

"We  might  as  well  all  go,"  said  Jeanne  list- 
lessly. 

They  went  down  together  to  the  foyer  and  the 
vestibule,  and  when  they  were  standing  by  Miss 
Campion's  carriage,  tucking  in  Miss  Campion's 
grandmamma,  upon  whose  physical  strength  the 
ball  had  apparently  made  no  impression,  Curtis 
Baird  said :  — 

"Now  we  '11  go  home  to  repent  us  of  our  sins." 

"Yes,  to  repent  us  of  our  sins,"  repeated 
Jacques  dully.  "Good-night." 

Jacques  always  put  out  the  lamp  under  the 
arch,  so  he  kissed  Jeanne  and  said :  — 

"You  're  dead  tired,  bebe;  run  to  bed."  And 
she  went  upstairs,  but  Enid  lingered  with  him 
beneath  the  lamp  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"I  am  sorry  we  quarreled,"  she  said,  looking 
at  him  straight  out  of  her  sweet,  wholesome 
eyes.  "I  was  rude.  I  was  unjust.  I  did  not 
mean  that  our  good  comradeship  had  been  no- 
thing to  me.  It  has  been  a  great  deal.  It  has 
been  the  happiest "  —  she  paused  and  thought, 
"no,  not  the  happiest,  for  Sylvia's  new  strength 
makes  me  happier,  however  it  has  come  about;  " 
so  she  corrected  herself —  "one  of  the  happiest 
things  the  winter  has  brought  me.  I  do  not  want 
to  lose  it." 

This  would  have  been  an  excellent  opportunity 


192  DIANA   VICTEIX 

for  Jacques  to  sulk,  but  Jacques  was  a  gentle- 
man. 

"It  was  the  thought  of  losing  it  which  made 
me  so  miserable,"  he  said,  and  he  took  her  prof- 
fered hand.  "When  I  am  unhappy,  I  lose  my 
temper.  It  is  one  of  my  failings." 

"It  is  one  of  mine,  too,"  Enid  answered.  "I 
thank  you  for  being  so  generous." 

"And  you  also." 

Very  late,  Sylvia,  lying  awake,  heard  some- 
body coming  along  the  gallery.  He  came  slowly, 
and  once  he  stumbled.  He  passed  her  door,  and 
after  he  had  passed  she  went  over  and  leaned 
against  it  and  listened.  She  heard  madame's 
door  open  softly  just  a  little  way,  and  she  knew 
that  madame  was  standing  watching  him,  but  he 
did  not  turn  nor  stop ;  he  went  on  along  the  gal- 
lery, and  up  three  steps  at  the  end,  and  again  he 
stumbled,  and  turned  off  to  his  own  room. 

Sylvia  lifted  her  arms  above  her  head,  laid 
them  against  the  door,  and  pressed  her  cheek 
against  the  smooth  panel. 

"How  I  should  loathe  myself,  if  I  were  his 
wife !  "  she  said. 


CHAPTER   VI 

ASH   WEDNESDAY 

ASH  WEDNESDAY  was  a  warm,  pale  day;  there 
was  no  breeze  to  sway  the  branches  of  the  big 
magnolia-tree.  The  sunlight  lay  in  the  court- 
yard with  melancholy  quiet.  And  Jacques,  on 
a  bench  in  a  corner,  was  the  stillest  thing  of  all. 
He  sat  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  his  chin 
in  his  hands.  Enid  looked  down  through  the 
gallery  shutters  and  saw  him  there,  and  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  later,  when  by  chance  she  looked 
again,  he  had  not  moved.  She  went  into  her 
own  room  and  closed  the  door  softly. 

Still  Jacques  sat  in  the  courtyard,  staring  at  the 
sunshine  on  the  bricks,  — repenting  of  his  sins, 
perhaps ;  and  if  he  heard  Jeanne  come  down  the 
passage  and  stand  beneath  the  arch,  at  least  he 
did  not  seem  to  hear  her. 

Jeanne  said  "  O !  "  —  a  happy  little  round  O,  — 
and  Jacques  lifted  his  head  and  smiled.  But  the 
sunshine  was  just  as  sad  as  it  had  been  before, 
and  the  great  white  buds  on  the  magnolia-tree 
did  not  stir. 

"Thou  art  not  ill?"  said  Jeanne.     She  came 


194  DIANA    VICTEIX 

over  to  the  bench  and  stood  beside  him,  as  a 
child  stands,  quite  close. 

"No,  but  there  was  nothing  doing,  so  I  came 
home." 

He  answered  her  in  English.  He  had  fallen 
into  the  way  of  speaking  English  to  her  since 
Enid  and  Sylvia  had  lived  with  them.  There 
seemed  to  be  less  intimacy  about  it.  Not  that 
Jacques  intended  to  be  less  intimate. 

She  was  taking  off  her  gloves  slowly  and  look- 
ing down  at  him. 

"And  was  last  night's  ball  the  best  of  all?" 
he  asked  presently,  with  something  of  an  effort. 

She  sat  down,  began  to  pull  out  the  fingers  of 
her  gloves,  shook  her  head  like  a  disappointed 
child,  slowly,  wistfully,  and  said :  — 

"N-n-o!" 

But  he  paid  no  attention  to  the  hesitating 
monosyllable. 

"Do  you  know,  Jacques,"  she  continued,  "it 
was  the  very  last  of  all  the  balls,  that  one,  and 
you  never  danced  with  me  a  single  time?" 

"Ah!  "  said  he,  smiling,  and  pretending  to  be 
contrite.  "  Did  I  not  ?  That  was  a  great  over- 
sight. Never  mind.  I  will  dance  two  dances 
with  you  next  year  to  make  up  for  it.  But  per- 
haps by  that  time  there  will  be  some  other  fellow, 
and  your  poor  old  brother  will  be  left  out  in  the 
cold.  You  may  not  care  to  dance  with  him." 

"No!"   she  cried  impulsively,  and  the  tears 


ASH   WEDNESDAY  195 

came  into  her  eyes  as  she  tried  to  smile.  "You 
tease,  Jacques!  Those  balls  have  made  me  so 
tired!  I  don't  like  to  be  teased  to-day." 

"Eh,  bien,  non!"  he  said,  and  put  his  arm 
around  her  shoulders. 

The  knowledge  that  she  was  as  yet  unconscious 
of  the  meaning  of  her  own  feelings,  and  that  any 
careless  word  of  his  might  enlighten  her,  made 
him  uneasy,  frightened,  —  for  her  sake  more  than 
for  his  own,  be  it  said,  for  she  was  dear  to  him. 

She  settled  herself  against  his  arm  and  laid 
aside  her  hat,  saying  contentedly :  — 

"  I  have  not  talked  with  you  tout  seul  for  such 
a  long  time!  There  are  so  many  dinners,  and 
parties,  and  other  people." 

And  again  he  made  no  comment.  He  was 
looking  absently  at  the  wall  above  the  water-jar. 
He  was  thinking  of  Enid's  face  with  the  light 
of  the  lamp  upon  it.  He  had  been  thinking  of 
her  face  all  day,  the  strength  of  the  mouth,  the 
sweetness  of  the  eyes. 

"Jeanne,"  he  began  quite  irrelevantly  a  mo- 
ment later,  "how  should  you  like  to  learn  how 
to  put  your  songs  on  paper  and  see  them  printed  ? 
How  should  you  like  to  study  harmony  and  thor- 
ough-bass, —  and  be  a  musician?" 

"Study!"  said  Jeanne.  "Oh,  Jacques,  but 
didn't  I  finish  studying?  All  the  other  girls 
have  left  school.  No,  I  don't  want  to,  — please, 
Jacques." 


196  DIANA    VICTEIX 

"It  would  not  be  quite  the  same,"  he  explained; 
"you  should  go  to  Europe  " 

"And  you?  "  she  asked. 

"I?  Oh,  I  should  stay  at  home  and  make  the 
money." 

"  But,  Jacques,  you  said  you  could  not  afford 
it." 

"That  was  some  time  ago.  It  is  different 
now ;  do  you  not  see  ?  I  shall  be  in  business  for 
myself,  and  I  have  promise  of  a  good  business. 
The  money  comes  easier  than  it  did.  Think, 
mignonne !  Paris  —  Paris  —  and  Berlin  and  Vi- 
enna. You  shall  go  if  you  will." 

"Why  do  you  want  me  to  go?"  she  asked. 

Such  an  uncompromisingly  plain  question! 
How  are  you  going  to  answer  it,  Jacques?  See 
her  eyes,  how  grave  they  are,  and  her  mouth, 
how  listless!  Why  did  you  want  her  to  go, 
Jacques,  after  all? 

"Do  you  not  love  your  music,  little  one?"  he 
said.  "Do  you  not  want  to  learn  to  use  it  well? 
I  think  I  have  been  thoughtless.  Here  is  a  great 
gift  le  bon  Dieu  has  given  you,  and  I  have  done 
nothing  to  help  you  use  it." 

"You  have  been  talking  to  Miss  Enid,"  she 
said  suspiciously.  "Those  are  the  things  she 
says  to  me." 

"Miss  Enid  is  very  wise,"  Jacques  answered, 
smoothing  the  fluffy  hair. 

She  only  looked  troubled  and  shook  her  head. 


ASH   WEDNESDAY  197 

"Listen,  my  little  sister.  It  might  be  that 
some  day  you  would  need  money." 

"But  you  always  give  me  money,  Jacques;  I 
do  not  even  have  to  ask  for  it." 

"I  know,  I  know,  but  listen.     If  I  were  to  — 
die"- 

He  was  afraid  to  say  "marry." 

She  gave  a  little  cry,  and  flung  her  arms 
around  his  neck. 

"Why  do  you  say  such  things?  When  I  am 
so  tired  after  the  carnival,  and  this  weather  is 
stifling,  and  —  you  make  me  cry.  I  do  not  want 
to  go  anywhere  but  here.  I  should  be  homesick 
in  another  place,  —  in  Paris,  in  Berlin,  in  Vienna. 
I  will  not  go,  Jacques.  Why  do  you  talk  about 
dying  ?  Is  it  not  enough  that  this  is  Ash  Wednes- 
day, and  the  tears  are  so  close  to  my  eyes?" 

He  dried  her  tears  and  kissed  her,  but  could 
not  leave  the  subject  alone. 

"It  is  not  fair  to  you  to  let  you  see  so  little  of 
the  world." 

"There  are  other  girls  who  do  not  see  as 
much!  "  she  protested.  "There  is  Therese  Bonet, 
—  she  never  goes  away.  And  I  have  been  three 
times  to  the  Pass,  and  once  to  Mississippi  City, 
besides  that  time  to  Brown's  Wells  when  maman 
was  ill." 

"You  will  be  falling  in  love  with  some  good- 
for-nothing  fellow  here,  and  only  because  you 
have  not  seen  enough  of  other  men,"  he  continued. 


198  DIANA    VICTRIX 

She  laughed  quite  merrily  at  this. 

"Oh,  funny!  Do  I  look  like  falling  in  love? 
No,  I  shall  stay  here  with  you.  I  do  not  wish  to 
go  away.  I  will  learn  how  to  write  Miss  Sylvia's 
song  soon.  But  all  that  is  so  slow,  Jacques,  and 
I  do  not  want  to  do  it  —  all  the  time,  —  all  the 
time,  nothing  else!  You  are  not  going  to  die, 
Jacques.  You  do  not  feel  a  bit  like  dying.  You 
only  say  that  to  tease  me." 

He  thought  of  David  Copperfield  and  Dora, 
and  felt  sick.  In  one  way  he  knew  the  parallel 
did  not  hold  good,  for  he  should  have  nothing  to 
complain  of  as  to  dinners  and  bills  if  he  married 
this  little  Creole  girl.  She  was  frugal  by  instinct 
and  education ;  she  had  the  true  French  talent  for 
careful  shopping.  But  was  this  all  that  he  had 
a  right  to  expect  from  marriage?  —  a  good  din- 
ner, and  after  dinner  a  little  wife  upon  his  knee, 
to  be  petted,  —  eternally  petted  ?  Only  this, 
when  there  were  other  women  in  the  world  who 
were  made  to  walk  with  a  man  shoulder  to  shoul- 
der? He  thought  he  was  tired  of  deciding  all 
his  affairs  without  help  from  others.  Enid's 
word  "comradeship"  rang  in  his  ears.  He  no 
longer  said,  "If  I  were  in  love  with  somebody 
else."  No,  he  only  said,  "Which?  " 

"Then  you  will  not  go?"  he  asked  slowly,  as 
if  he  were  thinking  of  something  else. 

"No,  no!"  she  pouted.  And  then,  with  a 
sudden  access  of  repentance,  "If  you  wish  it, 


ASH    WEDNESDAY  199 

Jacques,  I  will  go.  I  will  study  very  hard.  I 
will  if  you  wish  it,  Jacques, —  Jacques!" 

The  tears  were  coming  again.  He  could  not 
bid  her  go  after  that. 

He  sent  her  to  her  room  comforted,  and  he 
sat  in  the  courtyard  till  the  sunlight  was  all  drawn 
up  over  the  walls,  and  the  bricks  were  growing 
damp,  and  the  magnolia-tree  had  rustled  once  or 
twice.  Then  he  got  up  and  went  into  the  house. 

Were  you  trying  to  buy  her  off,  Jacques?  Did 
you  think  that  that  was  one  way  out  of  it?  Did 
you  really  think  so? 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE   COMING   OF   SPRING 

AND  then  the  end  of  Jeanne's  winter  came, 
and  Jeanne  died.  There  was  no  warning;  it  was 
one  of  those  great  crashes  that  shiver  unexpectedly 
through  the  harmony  of  God  and  offend  men's 
minds  as  a  discord.  Who  would  have  thought 
that  Jeanne  could  die?  But  she  did  die,  sud- 
denly, terribly,  one  night  in  April,  on  the  shore 
of  the  lake  where  she  had  played  in  her  child- 
hood, where  Jacques  had  called  her  "little  wife," 
and  carried  her  about  in  his  arms. 

It  was  Jacques  who  had  planned  that  they 
should  all  go  across  the  lake  and  camp  out  over 
Sunday  in  the  old  house  on  the  beach,  so  that 
Enid  and  Sylvia  might  have  a  glimpse  of  South- 
ern country  before  they  went  home. 

Enid  wanted  to  go  home  in  March,  immediately 
after  the  carnival,  but  Sylvia's  father  wrote  that 
the  weather  in  Boston  was  atrocious,  and  as  long 
as  Sylvia  was  really  gaining,  a  fact  about  which 
he  seemed  skeptical,  she  might  as  well  stay  an- 
other month.  So  what  could  Enid  do? 

She   tried    to   forget   herself    in   her  economy 


THE  COMING  OF  SPRING  201 

books  as  much  as  possible,  for  the  things  that 
went  on  outside  of  her  grew  more  and  more  diffi- 
cult to  endure.  But  she  had  to  stay.  She  had 
to  see  the  color  come  to  Sylvia's  face,  and  the 
light  to  Sylvia's  eyes,  and  stand  outside  the 
reason  why,  —  she,  who  had  dreamed  that  it  was 
given  to  her  from  God,  by  right  of  love,  to  bring 
soul's  health  to  her  friend;  she,  whose  whole 
personal  life  was  —  Sylvia !  And  Sylvia  said  no 
word. 

She  had  to  watch  the  result  of  her  own  unwis- 

I 

dom,  too,  —  her  own  stupidity,  she  called  it ;  she 
had  to  see  Jacques  conscientiously,  miserably, 
striving  to  sacrifice  himself  for  Jeanne's  sake. 
She  reviled  herself  for  being  heedless,  and  her 
heart  ached  for  Jeanne,  poor  Jeanne!  who  was 
to  be  given  the  shell  of  the  thing  with  only  emp- 
tiness inside.  Jacques'  face  was  stern,  and  his 
chin  was  set  hard.  People  thought  he  was  intent 
upon  his  business  affairs.  Once  Enid  saw  him 
turn  away  from  the  little  sister  with  a  weariness 
that  had  something  of  loathing  in  it.  But  he, 
too,  said  no  word. 

Finally,  she  had  to  witness  the  painful  spec- 
tacle of  a  worldly  woman  coldly  preparing  to 
wreck  her  own  life.  As  it  happened,  a  wreck 
was  averted,  but  that  was  not  due  to  Roma  Cam- 
pion. She  was  ashamed  to  break  her  engage- 
ment, for  she  generously  confessed  to  herself  that 
this  young  man  with  the  quizzical  blue  eyes  had 


202  DIANA   VICTRIX 

not  consciously  deceived  her.  If  he  had  shown 
that  he  felt  guilty,  she  could  have  freed  herself 
with  a  good  conscience,  but  —  she  was  ashamed 
to  be  degraded  in  his  eyes,  and  —  she  could  not 
make  up  her  mjnd  to  let  him  go.  Why?  Was 
it  pride?  Or  was  it  something  nobler  of  which 
she  was  as  yet  unaware  ?  Perhaps,  for  in  the  end 
the  wreck  was  averted,  but  there  was  one  while 
of  storm.  Enid  saw  the  storm  coming,  but  Roma 
shut  her  eyes,  bought  her  gowns,  and  was  cold 
and  brilliant.  Sometimes  she  would  put  hypo- 
thetical cases  to  Enid,  as :  — 

"If  a  man  were  to  ask  you  to  marry  him,  and 
you  didn't  love  him,"  etc. 

But  otherwise  she,  too,  kept  her  own  counsel. 

And  nobody  was  looking  for  such  a  thing  as 
death.  Life  seemed  inevitable,  painfully  long, 
wretched,  and  not  to  be  escaped,  to  all  of  them 
just  then.  To  all  except  Jeanne.  Jeanne  had 
so  much  joy  in  life ! 

The  beach  at  that  side  of  Lake  Pontchartrain 
is  sandy  and  white,  a  good  safe  place  for  a  bon- 
fire if  the  wind  is  right.  They  couldn't  wait  for 
a  moon,  because  Enid  and  Sylvia  were  going 
home  in  a  few  days ;  so  they  built  a  bonfire  on 
Sunday  night  and  sat  around  it,  talking  of  the 
summer  plans.  Curtis  Baird  had  a  lodge  in  the 
White  Mountains,  and  they  were  all  to  "come 
up"  and  be  with  him  and  "his  wife"  in  August 
or  September. 


THE  COMING   OF  SPRING  203 

They  separated  and  wandered  off  in  couples 
after  a  while,  and  madame  went  up  to  the  house 
to  prepare  a  late  supper. 

"I  shall  not  be  able  to  go,"  said  Jocelin,  with 
pathetic  resignation. 

"I  think  you  ought  to  come  back  to  New  York 
and  try  to  take  up  the  work  you  left  a  year  ago," 
said  Sylvia. 

Jocelin  brightened.  He  wanted  very  much  to 
be  of  that  mountain  party;  it  would  be  a  pleas- 
ure to  him,  and  Jocelin  was  fond  of  pleasure. 

"I  will  consult  with  Jacques,"  he  said  more 
cheerfully. 

There  were  several  reasons  why  he  would  be 
obliged  to  consult  with  Jacques,  —  financial  rea- 
sons. But  Sylvia  did  not  know;  she  only  thought 
it  very  sweet  of  him  to  defer  so  entirely  to  his 
elder  brother.  She  did  not  know  how  "little  "  the 
money  was  which,  as  he  had  told  her,  he  earned 
by  choir-singing. 

They  wandered  along  the  beach  slowly. 

Jacques  and  Enid  were  sitting  on  the  edge  of 
the  bath-house  wharf,  where  it  slopes  up  from 
the  sand.  Jeanne  was  putting  brush  on  the  fire. 
Roma  and  Curtis  Baird  had  strolled  down  the 
wharf. 

Jacques  and  Enid  had  their  backs  turned  to 
Jeanne  and  the  bonfire,  and  Jacques  was  say- 
ing:— 

"  I  should  like  to  ask  you  something.     Do  you 


204  DIANA    VICTEIX 

think  Jeanne, — that  is,  you  are  a  woman,  per- 
haps you  can  tell  me,  —  I  should  like  to  feel  sure 
before  I  —  before  I "  — 

He  stopped  a  moment,  and  she  felt  sorry  for 
him,  but  she  said  nothing,  so  he  began  again :  — 

"She  is  such  a  child!  You  may  have  heard 
people  laugh  about  her  preference  for  me,  but 
I  am  as  a  brother  to  her.  I  should  not  like  to 
startle  her.  She  might  think  she  must  marry 
me  out  of  gratitude,  and  that  would  be  such  a 
mistake!  Do  you  think  it  wise  for  me  to  ask 
her?" 

He  wished  that  Enid  would  show  some  distress, 
some  surprise,  or  confusion.  If  she  had,  there 
would  have  been  no  more  thought  of  Jeanne. 
But  Enid  said :  — 

"I  think  she  loves  you  with  all  her  heart;  you 
only  need  to  speak  a  word  to  her,  and  she  will 
understand  herself.  That  will  be  the  happiest 
way  for  her  to  find  out." 

She  had  never  before  felt  such  full  respect  and 
pity  for  this  exemplary  young  man,  who  was  try- 
ing so  hard,  so  hard,  to  do  his  duty.  And  over 
by  the  bonfire  Jeanne  began  to  sing,  but  Enid 
and  Jacques  did  not  turn  to  look  at  her,  nor  did 
they  look  at  each  other. 

"Perhaps  it  will  do  no  harm  to  wait  a  little 
longer,"  he  said. 

"  The  young  Spring  came  to  the  world," 

sang  Jeanne. 


THE   COMING    OF  SPRING  205 

Poor  little  deluded  prophetess,  whose  spring 
never  came ! 

"  The  young  Spring  came  to  the  world 

And  found  me, 
And  put  her  arm  around  me ; 

And  close  —  close  —  close  —  like  rose-petals  curled 
Up  under  a  sheath  —  a  sheath  still  furled, 
My  heart  at  the  heart  of  the  young  Spring's  heart, 
My  heart,  .  .  .  My  hea  —  a  —  a  —  r-r" 

Oh,  the  dreadful  scream ! 

She  had  stood  with  her  back  to  the  fire,  too 
close.  And  the  flame  swept  up  from  her  skirt 
to  her  head.  She  began  to  run.  They  always 
run.  And  she  looked  over  her  shoulder  and 
saw  Jacques  running  towards  her,  and  the  only 
thought  that  came  to  her  clearly  was :  "  It  will 
burn  Jacques!"  So  she  ran  faster,  that  he 
might  not  touch  her,  and  she  screamed:  "No,  no, 
Jacques!  You  will  be  burnt!  " 
•  It  chanced  that  she  ran  away  from  the  water 
along  the  edges  of  the  gardens,  and  her  dress 
caught  on  the  fences  as  she  passed  and  tore  off  in 
rags  and  burned  there.  She  had  a  long  start  of 
Jacques,  and  the  flames  played  about  her  feet 
like  wings.  She  made  no  other  sound  after  the 
horrible  scream  and  the  warning  to  Jacques,  but 
he  behind  her  was  calling  to  her  wildly  to  stop ! 
to  turn  to  the  water !  to  wait ! 

"Jeanne !  —  Jeanne !  " 

He  saw  she  did  not  understand  him,  did  not 
hear  him.     She  was  past  understanding  anything 


206  DIANA    VICTRIX 

then.  And  as  he  ran,  he  knew  that  his  running 
only  made  her  run  faster,  but  he  dared  not  stop. 
He  knew  that,  if  he  stopped,  those  terrible  flames 
could  not  be  quenched.  If  he  ran  he  was  killing 
her,  and  if  he  stopped  he  was  killing  her;  and 
the  horror  of  it  was  beating  up  and  down  in  his 
brain  and  against  the  back  of  his  eyes,  so  that 
he  could  not  see  anything;  he  only  ran  on,  debat- 
ing the  question  as  he  ran, — stop?  run?  stop? 
run  ?  And  that  was  not  the  worst  of  it,  for  back 
of  the  knowledge  that  this  was  death  came  the 
sense  that  there  was  nothing  more  loathsome  in 
life  than  to  be  able  to  have  one's  own  way. 
He  hated  all  insistent,  willful  humanity,  and 
himself  most  of  all.  And  he  ran  —  stop?  run? 
stop? 

Ten  yards  ahead  of  him,  she  fell  down  in  a 
gully,  and  went  out  like  a  torch.  Then  Curtis 
Baird,  who  was  a  college  man  and  an  athlete, 
ran  past  Jacques  in  the  darkness,  climbed  down 
the  gully,  and  felt  about  in  the  water  till  he  found 
her. 

Jacques  lay  face  down  on  the  sand,  writhing, 
not  uttering  a  sound.  And  Baird,  busy  in  the 
ditch,  found  himself  thinking :  — 

"It  is  the  French  excitable  temperament.  If 
this  thing  had  happened  to  Roma,  I  should  have 
felt  as  badly  as  he  does,  but  I  should  have  shown 
it  differently." 

But  Enid,  standing  stonily  above  the  unmanned 


THE  COMING   OF  SPRING  207 

creature  on  the  sand,  knew  that  this  was  remorse 
and  loathing  of  himself,  not  love  for  Jeanne. 

Jocelin  sobbed  like  a  child,  and  would  not  look 
at  the  little  sister,  would  not  touch  her,  crept 
shudderingiy  away  when  Curtis  Baird  lifted  up 
the  charred  something  that  had  been  Jeanne,  and 
carried  it  slowly  up  the  beach  and  through  the 
garden.  For  hours  Jocelin  wept;  every  fresh 
turn  of  thought  brought  the  tears  welling  to  his 
eyes.  Later,  when  his  childlike  grief  had  quieted, 
the  thought  came  to  him  that  Jeanne  could  not 
be  with  them  in  the  White  Mountains  the  next 
summer,  and  then  it  occurred  to  him  that  per- 
haps, now  she  was  dead,  they  would  not  go  to 
the  White  Mountains.  And  he  wept  again. 

Jeanne  lived  a  few  hours,  if  it  could  be  called 
living,  but  they  were  all  glad  that  she  never 
knew  anything  more. 

Madame,  sitting  by  the  table  where  they  had 
laid  the  poor  body,  rocked  herself  to  and  fro,  and 
cried,  and  stared  about  her  helplessly.  But  the 
pity  of  it  was  that,  when  Roma  Campion  had 
come  in  ahead  of  the  others  to  break  the  news, 
she  had  said:  "There  has  been  an  accident" 

And  madame  had  clung  to  her,  white  and 
flabby,  and  had  gasped,  "Not  Jocelin?  " 

Poor  little  Jeanne !     Poor  little  Jeanne ! 

Enid,  stunned  and  weary,  thought:  "God  is 
very  good,  for  if,  after  she  had  become  his  wife, 
she  had  waked  up  to  a  knowledge  of  the  empti- 


208  DIANA   VICTEIX 

ness  of  what  he  gave  her,  it  would  have  broken 
her  heart." 

And  Roma  Campion  drew  a  cloth  over  the  face 
that  had  been  so  lovely,  and  said  to  herself :  — 

"I  wish  that  I  had  died  when  I  was  nineteen, 
in  the  midst  of  the  joy  of  it,  even  such  a  death 
as  this.  There  are  so  many  things  that  are 
worse ! " 

And  she  shuddered,  but  not  for  Jeanne. 

Sylvia  went  away  by  herself  to  pray,  and  in 
the  midst  of  her  prayer  the  idea  came  to  her  that 
God  might  have  done  this  thing  for  the  salvation 
of  Jocelin.  If  she  could  make  Jocelin  promise 
to  write  Jeanne's  music  and  perpetuate  Jeanne's 
name,  for  Jeanne's  sake! 

"He  will  do  it  for  her.  He  is  an  idealist, 
and  it  will  appeal  to  him  and  keep  him  steady, 
and  give  him  a  lofty  purpose  in  life.  And  that 
will  increase  the  power  of  his  will.  He  will  for- 
get his  own  wretchedness." 

A  lofty  purpose  in  life!  This  was  Sylvia's 
idea  of  the  need  of  Jocelin 's  temperament.  She 
thanked  God,  and  prayed  for  power  to  make 
Jocelin  give  his  promise. 

Oh,  Jeanne,  dear  Jeanne !  Was  anybody  sorry 
you  died?  Anybody? 

Monsieur  Dumarais  groped  his  way  into  his 
son's  room,  where  his  son  lay  like  a  log  on  the 
bed. 

"Do  not  grieve,  Jacques.     Do  not  reproach 


THE   COMING    OF  SPBIXG  209 

yourself,  my  son.  She  never  knew.  She  was 
happy  always,  and  you  gave  her  the  happiness. 
She  never  guessed.  And  you  would  have  mar- 
ried her.  Do  not  reproach  yourself !  " 

"The  Almighty  is  terrible  in  his  punishments !  " 
said  Jacques.  "My  God!  If  I  had  not  rebelled 
against  it,  this  would  not  be  so  horrible  now,  this 
being  given  my  own  way." 

And  monsieur  was  silent  a  moment  before  he 
said  slowly :  — 

"Do  you  think  you  are  going  to  have  your  own 
way?" 


BOOK  III 

ON  THE  MOUNTAIN  TOP 

"  Ici  bas  tous  les  homines  pleurent 
Leurs  amities  on  leurs  amours ; 
Je  r§ve  aux  couples  qui  demeureiit 
Toujours." 

SULLY  PEUDHOMME. 


CHAPTER   I 
CURTIS  BAIRD'S  HAPPY  VALLEY 

THERE  is  a  little  valley  among  the  mountains 
of  New  Hampshire,  —  never  mind  where,  never 
mind  its  name,  —  a  little  valley  with  a  river 
winding  through  it,  and  great  wooded  hills  bub- 
bling up  around,  and  in  the  blue  beyond,  peering 
up  over  the  hills,  two  of  the  real  mountains. 
The  village  in  the  valley  by  the  river  is  one 
church-spire  and  a  post-office,  and  the  man  who 
makes  rubber  stamps  for  post-offices  cut  the  name 
of  the  village  wrong  on  the  stamp,  but  it  was  of 
no  consequence,  for  they  used  the  stamp  just  the 
same.  And  people  who  received  letters  from 
that  village  knew  that  one  thing  meant  another, 
—  or,  if  they  didn't  and  were  careless,  they  ad- 
dressed their  replies  wrong  and  received  them 
back  from  the  Dead -Letter  Office  after  several 
months.  The  real  name  of  the  village,  not  the 
name  on  the  stamp,  is  the  same  as  the  name  of 
the  valley  mentioned  above,  or  was  it  mentioned  ? 
However,  that  also  is  of  no  consequence,  you 
would  not  know  it  if  you  were  told.  Very  few 
people  know,  and  they  only  tell  their  intimate 
friends. 


214  DIANA    VICTEIX 

There  is  a  long,  white  farmhouse  under  a  hill 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river  from  the  village, 
and  the  same  summer  boarders  live  in  it  every 
summer  for  generations.  There  is  no  bridge 
across  the  river  nearer  than  the  next  town,  so 
people  have  to  ford  the  river,  except  when  it  is 
too  high,  and  then  they  have  to  go  seven  miles 
around.  When  the  summer  boarders  eat  a  great 
many  blueberries  with  cream  for  tea,  they  dream 
that  the  villagers  have  built  a  bridge  across  the 
river.  And  that  is  a  terrible  nightmare. 

Curtis  Baird  came  down  thirty  miles  through 
the  wilderness  from  Canada  one  summer  in  his 
college  days,  and,  standing  in  an  open  place  on  a 
ridge,  he  saw  the  valley  far  below,  green  and 
sheltered,  with  vase-like  elms  scattered  over  its 
meadows  and  the  ribbon  river  looped  about  the 
hills.  Curtis  Baird  had  a  nice  taste  for  poetry 
in  his  college  days,  and  always  and  forever  he 
had  a  delicate  appreciation  of  nature ;  but  as  he 
stood  on  the  bare  ledges  at  the  top  of  the  ridge, 
it  took  him  some  time  to  decide  why  this  lovely 
intervale  sank  into  his  mind  as  the  picture  of 
a  marriage  festival,  —  why  Spenser's  marriage 
hymn  seemed  translated  out  of  words  by  the  river 
and  the  elms  and  the  wind-ripples  bending  the 
long  grass.  The  reason,  or  a  part  of  it,  came  to 
him  at  last  through  the  serene  and  swan-like 
curves  of  the  trees,  and  he  remembered  how  the 
swans  came  down  the  river  in  the  poem.  And, 


CUBTIS  BAIRD'S  HAPPY   VALLEY        215 

being  a  college  man,  he  ruminated  awhile  upon 
the  psychology  of  the  impression  and  the  queer 
tricks  a  man's  mind  will  play  him. 

"Let  us  go  down  and  take  possession,"  he  said 
to  his  chum. 

But  of  course,  when  they  got  down  they  found 
that  some  one  had  been  before  them,  for  the  long, 
white  farmhouse  was  already  there,  under  the 
hill,  and  so  were  the  summer  boarders,  college 
professors,  clever,  mild-mannered  men  of  cul- 
ture, who  glanced  indifferently  at  Baird,  and 
thought  he  would  go  away  quickly  to  the  other 
side  of  the  mountains,  where  there  were  hotels 
and  fashionable  things.  But  they  were  mis- 
taken. He  stayed,  and  he  came  again  year  after 
year.  He  came  in  the  winter,  when  the  two  tall, 
over -peering  mountains,  the  guardians  of  the 
valley,  were  black  against  the  sky  and  snow- 
streaked  down  the  length  of  their  ravines ;  when 
the  forests  on  the  lower  hills  were  black,  with 
sprinklings  of  snow  along  the  tops  of  the  pine 
trees,  and  the  swift  river  flowed,  invisible,  be- 
neath the  white  and  sleeping  meadows  of  the 
intervale. 

He  came  in  the  spring,  when  the  logs  were  toss- 
ing, tumbling,  sliding,  locking,  down  the  swollen 
river,  and  the  waterfalls  were  savage,  and  the 
bark  on  the  young  poplar-trees  was  green  and 
alive  with  the  new  sap  that  rioted  through  it. 
He  stayed  late  in  the  autumn,  till  the  sunset  lights 


216  DIANA   VICTRIX 

on  the  mountains  were  fierce  copper  and  blood- 
red,  and  the  elms  in  the  valley  had  yellowed  and 
dropped  their  leaves. 

He  built  him  a  snug  lodge  in  a  high  pasture, 
with  mountains  stretching  back  behind  him,  and 
the  marriage  festival  of  the  intervale  forever  smil- 
ing below.  And  it  was  a  favorite  theory  with 
him,  not  mentioned  to  his  chum,  that  when  he 
married  he  should  bring  his  wife  here  and  watch 
her  face  to  see  if  she,  too,  thought  of  the  swans. 
But  she  didn't  think  of  them,  because,  you  see, 
he  married  Roma  Campion,  and  she  had  never 
read  that  particular  poem  of  Spenser's. 

Curtis  Baird  was  married  in  June,  but  it 
was  not  until  after  a  honeymoon  spent  in  the 
Yosemite,  and  supplemented  by  a  round  of  vis- 
its among  friends  and  relatives,  that  he  at  last 
brought  his  wife  up  to  the  primitive  lodge  over- 
looking the  New  Hampshire  valley,  and  then  it 
was  late  August,  quite  time  for  the  arrival  of 
Enid  and  Sylvia,  and  Jacques  and  Jocelin. 

Baird  had  to  wrestle  with  Jacques'  Cotton 
Exchange  prejudices  in  order  to  make  him  come, 
for  Jacques  said :  — 

"  This  is  no  way  to  build  up  a  business,  —  to 
have  both  partners  gallivanting  round  the  coun- 
try at  the  same  time." 

"  Hang  the  business !  "  said  Curtis  Baird.  "  Do 
it  by  telegraph.  Work  it  through  the  New  York 
market.  Can't  you?  That  old  duffer  you've 


CURTIS  BAIRUS  HAPPY   VALLEY        217 

got  at  the  desk  looks  steady  enough  to  be  trusted 
with  the  secrets  of  a  Turkish  harem ;  and  young 
Brown,  or  Jones,  or  whatever  his  name  is,  had 
practice  on  'Change  before  you  took  him.  He  's 
quite  a  lively  hand  at  it.  Thinks  he  is,  any  way. 
He  couldn't  wreck  us  in  two  weeks." 

"That 's  all  you  know  about  it,"  said  Jacques. 

"You  're  too  cautious,"  Baird  persisted. 
"  Here  you  are  working  yourself  to  the  bone,  and 
getting  yellow  and  flabby,  and  all  out  of  condi- 
tion, and  presently  the  heat  '11  knock  you  over 
and  you  '11  die.  And  here  I  '11  be,  with  the  busi- 
ness on  my  hands,  and  a  fine  mess ;  for  what  I  'm 
expected  to  do  with  it  in  such  an  emergency  the 
Lord  only  knows,  — I  don't." 

"I  '11  take  a  run  later,  when  you  come  back," 
said  Jacques. 

"And  spoil  all  the  fun,"  objected  his  friend. 
"You're  mopy,  Jacques.  It  has  been  awfully 
hard  lines  on  you  this  spring,  I  know." 

But  he  did  not  know  in  the  least. 

"Awfully  hard  lines,  old  fellow.  I  don't  ask 
you  to  come  for  the  pleasure  you  '11  get  out  of 
the  visit.  But  that  mountain  air  will  tone  you 
up,  and  make  you  feel  like  a  different  man. 
We'll  be  all  old  friends  together;  you  won't 
have  to  bother  about  entertaining  the  girls,  you 
know.  And  my  wife  '11  be  disappointed  if  you 
don't,  Jacques.  She 's  really  awfully  fond  of 
you.  And  she  's  quite  set  her  heart  on  this  little 


218  DIANA   V1CTR1X 

reunion.  You  need  n't  be  away  more  than  two 
weeks,  all  told,  and  we  '11  get  the  telegraphic 
market-reports  every  day,  and  the  office  can  send 
you  a  dispatch  in  cipher  every  night.  Come  on, 
old  man !  don't  be  such  a  Miss  Nancy.  It 's  all 
nonsense  to  try  to  plan  a  leave  when  I  get  back. 
How  do  I  know  when  I  '11  get  back?  May  be 
October,  may  be  December.  I  can't  pin  myself 
down  to  any  set  time,  you  know." 

So  Jacques  promised  to  go,  and  forthwith  set 
about  training  young  Brown,  or  Jones,  or  what- 
ever his  name  was,  luring  him  on  with  the  hope 
of  a  "rise"  in  October. 

Jocelin's  going  required  more  tact  and  diplo- 
macy. Jocelin  had  made  up  his  mind  that  he 
must  go,  that  nothing  was  so  necessary  to  his  well- 
being  as  this  journey  to  the  White  Mountains. 
He  based  the  spiritual  necessity  upon  the  fact 
that  Sylvia  had  said  to  him  when  she  went 
away :  — 

"  I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  make  me  a  promise, 
when  you  come  North  in  the  summer,  a  promise 
for  Jeanne's  sake  and  your  own  sake,  —  and 
mine." 

The  memory  of  Sylvia's  face,  as  she  said  these 
words,  remained  long  in  Jocelin's  esthetic  con- 
sciousness. He  wanted  to  see  her  again, — just 
for  the  pleasure  of  watching  her  beautiful  eyes. 
And  stronger  than  this  was  the  desire  to  be  idle, 
and  enjoy  Curtis  Baird's  good  wine,  and  lie  out 


CUBTIS  BAIRD'S  HAPPY   VALLEY        219 

under  the  trees  for  a  while  with  a  beautiful  world 
above  and  around,  and  no  need  to  work  and 
attend  choir-practice,  and  make  untuneful  pupils 
sing  the  scales. 

The  sense  of  the  nearness  of  a  beautiful  woman 
remained  always  a  part  of  the  picture  in  his  mind, 
but  never  overshadowed  it.  Jocelin  was  a  wor- 
shiper when  in  Sylvia's  presence,  but,  like  some 
other  worshipers,  he  left  his  emotion  at  the  door 
of  the  sanctuary.  Sylvia  absent  was  a  pleasant 
memory,  —  something  that  he  was  as  yet  glad  he 
had  not  lost  the  right  to  look  upon  again. 

But  Jocelin  had  no  money.  He  was  even  feel- 
ing rather  pinched  for  funds  just  now;  he  had 
not  Enid's  and  Sylvia's  board  to  fall  back  upon 
when  he  got  himself  into  a  tight  place.  And 
therefore  it  was  that,  in  the  latter  part  of  June, 
he  took  to  loitering  in  his  mother's  sewing-room, 
—  such  a  sober,  dreary  place  now  that  Jeanne's 
pretty  finery  no  longer  littered  the  chairs  and  the 
floor.  Jocelin  would  lounge  idly  in  one  of  the 
chairs,  snipping  up  little  pieces  of  black  Henri- 
etta cloth,  or  pushing  the  pins  up  to  their  heads 
along  the  ridges  of  his  mother's  symmetrical 
tomato  -  pincushion.  Sometimes  he  would  say 
moodily:  — 

"I  can  no  longer  endure  this  life.  It  is  killing 
me,  this  living  in  the  same  house  with  Jacques 
and  eating  his  bread.  I  will  no  longer  suffer 
this  degradation.  I  must  go  away." 


220  DIANA   VICTEIX 

Then  the  pulpy  organ  which  the  doctors  called 
madame's  heart  would  so  comport  itself  that, 
for  the  next  fifteen  minutes,  madame  would  be 
all  splotchy,  and  perhaps  she  would  weep  a  few 
slow-squeezed  tears  and  say  tremulously :  — 

"Oh,  my  son,  my  Jocelin!  It  is  not  possible 
that  thou  wilt  go  away  from  me !  Thou  art  not 
so  cruel !  And  thy  sister  is  dead !  Thou  wilt  not 
leave  me,  too?" 

And  Jocelin  would  proceed  to  enlarge  upon  his 
family  pride,  his  sense  of  unbearable  degrada- 
tion. He  complained  at  these  times  of  being  tied 
to  his  mother's  apron-strings;  he  dwelt  in  mourn- 
ful retrospect  upon  the  large  sums  paid  by  New 
York  millionaires  for  parlor  singers.  He  even 
hinted  darkly  at  some  tragic  event  which  might 
transpire  if  he  were  forced  to  remain  much  longer 
beneath  the  same  roof  with  his  successful  and 
domineering  step-brother. 

At  other  times  Jocelin  would  sit  for  an  hour  or 
more  in  the  sewing-room,  absolutely  silent,  star- 
ing wistfully  into  space,  sighing  occasionally  the 
softest,  most  pathetic  sighs. 

"Tu  ne  te  portes  pas  tres  bien  aujourd'hui, 
Jocelin?" 

"Oui,  Maman,  assez  bien,  comme  toujours." 

Jocelin  was  no  more  conscious  of  deliberate 
scheming  than  a  child  is  when  it  wheedles  for 
a  cooky.  Jocelin  wanted  this  pleasure  very  much 
indeed,  and  it  was  his  nature  to  do  all  in  his 


CUETIS  BAIR&S  HAPPY    VALLEY        221 

power  to  get  what  he  wanted.  It  was  Jacques' 
nature,  too,  for  that  matter;  but  Jacques  did  not 
want  the  same  things,  and  went  about  getting 
them  differently. 

Madame  endured  this  torture  for  a  month. 
Jocelin  did  not  know  it  was  torture.  Perhaps 
he  would  not  have  persisted  in  it,  if  he  had 
known.  Perhaps.  And  at  last,  in  July,  madame 
went  to  Jacques  and  laid  the  case  before  him, 
dwelling  upon  Jocelin's  ill-health,  immense  pride, 
hatred  of  dependence,  desire  to  redeem  himself 
and  prove  himself  more  worthy  of  respect,  —  in 
fine,  his  wish  to  go  to  New  York  and  try  to  win 
back  the  position  he  had  been  on  the  way  to 
acquiring  two  years  before. 

Nobody  could  have  put  the  case  better  than 
madame,  for  nobody  ever  had  less  logic  than  she 
to  bring  to  bear  upon  her  idolatry. 

"Do  you  want  him  to  go?"  asked  Jacques  in 
his  quick,  decisive  way. 

Madame  did  not  want  him  to  go  in  the  least, 
but  he  had  set  his  heart  upon  going,  and  she 
was  his  mother.  She  pleaded  babblingly  for  his 
desire. 

He  was  making  himself  ill  over  his  uselessness. 
He  was  brooding  over  it,  and  he  was  so  sensitive, 
so  high-strung !  It  might  be  —  here  madame 
fidgeted  her  scissors  and  avoided  Jacques'  eyes  — 
it  might  be  not  so  bad  if  —  if  —  It  was  quite 
evident  that  Mile.  Sylvia  was  attracted  by  Joce- 


222  DIANA   VICTK1X 

lin;  he  was  lovable.  Had  not  rnadanie  under- 
stood that  Mile.  Sylvia  was  rich?  It  might  be 
more  of  a  help  to  Jacques  than  an  expense,  in 
the  end,  this  journey. 

Jacques'  first  thought  was  a  pleasant  one :  "If 
she  married,  my  own  desire  might  prosper." 
But  he  thrust  it  from  him,  and  said  sternly :  — 

"You  have  not  mentioned  this  to  Jocelin?" 

No,  madame  had  not  mentioned  it, — that  is, 
she  thought  she  had  not. 

"Then  please  do  not  do  so,"  Jacques  com- 
manded. 

And  madame,  suddenly  recalling  an  occasion 
when  she  had  hinted  such  a  possibility  to  Joce- 
lin, became  clammy  with  cold  perspiration,  but 
did  not  correct  her  misstatement.  Instead,  she 
veered  to  another  line  of  appeal. 

Jacques  had  intended  to  take  Jeanne  North 
this  summer;  would  he  not,  therefore,  use  this 
money  for  Jocelin  ?  It  would  mean  no  more  ex- 
pense. Jeanne  would  have  been  the  first  to  plead 
for  her  brother.  No  doubt  she  wept  now  in 
heaven  at  the  sight  of  him  so  pale  and  discour- 
aged. If  Jacques  would  allow  madame  to  do  this 
thing  as  a  memorial  for  Jeanne?  Jocelin  would 
die,  assuredly,  if  something  were  not  done.  His 
father  was  that  way,  speechless  and  melancholy, 
the  year  before  he  died.  For  Jeanne's  sake ! 

And  so,  in  memory  of  Jeanne,  Jocelin  was 
sent  to  perdition  at  a  slightly  accelerated  pace. 


CURTIS   BAIR&S   HAPPY   VALLEY        223 

That  mountain  air,  of  which  Monsieur  Baird 
spoke  favorably,  would  perhaps  prepare  Jocelin 
for  his  winter  of  work.  And  Jacques  would  keep 
Jocelin  with  him  as  much  as  he  could  in  the 
North. 

The  tone  in  which  she  made  that  last  petition 
betrayed  madame's  wretchedness. 

Yes,   Jacques  would  keep  his  eye  on  him  as 

long  as  he  could.     But  this  must  be  understood, 

—  there  should  be  no  coming  home  unless  he  paid 

his  own  way.     Maman  was  not  to  get  ill  and 

fret. 

All  of  which  maman  promised,  and  further 
obtained  that  the  money  should  go  to  Jocelin 
from  her,  for  Jocelin  was  so  proud,  so  sensitive ! 
If  he  were  aware  of  this  new  indebtedness,  he 
would  assuredly  refuse  to  go. 

So  Jacques  and  Jocelin  went  North  together, 
preserving  the  same  degree  of  camaraderie  as 
might  have  been  displayed  by  two  unfriendly 
convicts  chained  to  the  same  ball.  They  arrived 
at  Baird's  lodge  about  the  middle  of  August. 

Sylvia  was  already  there,  having  come  from 
her  brother's  house  at  Beverly  Farms. 

Sylvia's  brother's  wife  was  puzzled.  She  said 
to  her  husband :  — 

"I  never  did  pretend  to  be  able  to  understand 
Sylvia,  but  since  she  has  gotten  better,  she  is 
more  inexplicable  than  ever.  Do  you  suppose 
she  is  in  love?  " 


224  DIANA    VICTEIX 

And  Sylvia's  clever  brother  laughed,  and 
said :  — 

"No  fear  of  that.     Too  much  Enid." 

Sylvia  greeted  Jocelin  with  a  remote  gentle- 
ness that  made  him  more  worshipful  than  ever. 

The  next  day  Enid  came  from  a  small  town 
in  western  Massachusetts,  where  she  had  been 
visiting  her  nearest  surviving  relative,  a  maiden 
aunt,  who  had  sent  her  through  college  and  re- 
gretted it  ever  since. 

"Just  a  good  number,"  said  Curtis  Baird. 
"Three  and  three.  We  can  go  up  on  the  moun- 
tain top  some  night  and  camp.  The  lean-tos  hold 
three  and  three  comfortably." 

And  Enid  thought  of  Jeanne;  and  that  old- 
fashioned  counting-rhyme  childi'en  say  when  they 
want  to  find  out  who  is  "it"  came  whimsically 
to  her  mind :  — 

"  One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven, 
All  good  children  go  to  heaven." 

Dear  Jeanne,  left  out  in  heaven ! 


CHAPTER   II 

CLIMBING   THE   MOUNTAIN 

THERE  was  a  total  eclipse  of  the  moon  that 
summer  in  August,  three  days  after  the  arrival 
of  Curtis  Baird's  guests. 

"We'll  go  up  the  mountain,"  he  said,  "and 
watch  it.  I  've  never  seen  a  total  eclipse.  Have 
you,  Jacques?" 

Yes,  Jacques  had  seen  one  once  when  he  was 
a  little  boy ;  he  remembered  being  routed  out  at 
midnight  to  look  at  it.  Or,  no !  he  believed  that 
was  a  comet.  Perhaps  he  had  not  seen  an  eclipse, 
after  all.  He  did  not  seem  to  care  whether  he 
had  seen  one  or  not;  he  showed  remarkably  little 
interest  in  the  phenomenon,  that  is,  remarkably 
little  for  him.  He  was  graver  than  he  used  to 
be,  and  there  was  the  shadow  of  a  permanent 
wrinkle  between  his  brows. 

Indeed,  if  Curtis  Baird  had  not  been  very  fond 
of  these  friends  of  his,  he  might  have  found  them 
all  rather  dull  company  just  now.  He  thought 
they  mourned  for  Jeanne,  and  they  did  to  a  cer- 
tain extent;  but  each  one  had  his  or  her  own 
private  preoccupation,  which  went  deeper  than 
any  feeling  any  one  of  them  had  for  Jeanne. 


226  DIANA    VICTEIX 

"We'll  take  them  up  and  give  them  anight 
out  of  doors,"  Curtis  Baird  said  gently  to  his 
wife.  "There  's  nothing  like  Nature  for  a  com- 
forter. A  night  under  the  stars  sets  me  up  bet- 
ter than  any  tonic." 

"Does  it?"  said  Roma,  without  looking  at 
him. 

"Dear,  do  you  think  it 's  good  to  let  your  mind 
dwell  so  much  on  that  little  dead  girl?"  he 
asked,  and  added  wistfully,  "I  know  you  were 
awfully  fond  of  her." 

"Yes,  I  was  quite  fond  of  her,"  she  answered 
coolly,  "but  my  mind  doesn't  dwell  upon  her 
very  much.  The  accident  was  dreadful,  but  it 
was  all  over  in  such  a  hurry,  you  know,  and  I 
was  some  distance  away." 

"Don't  you  like  the  idea  of  this  camping 
out?  "  he  asked  after  a  moment. 

And  she  answered  absent-mindedly,  "Oh,  yes." 

It  was  only  a  little  mountain,  a  climb  of  an 
hour  and  a  half,  but  it  had  an  open  top  and  a 
view,  and  was  well  worth  doing.  At  least,  so 
Curtis  Baird  said.  He  had  to  supply  enthusiasm 
for  the  party,  and  the  role  of  the  enthusiast  was 
a  new  one  for  him. 

The  air  was  still  and  sweet  that  August  day. 
The  small  brook  pattering  across  the  mountain 
path  was  full  of  water.  Jocelin  pulled  up  a 
long  green  vine  that  ran  upon  the  ground  and 
twined  it  about  Sylvia's  white  woolen  cap. 


CLIMBING    THE  MOUNTAIN  227 

""That 's  the  linnsea,  or  you  may  call  it  the  twin- 
flower,  if  you  like,"  said  Baird. 

They  rested  often  for  Sylvia's  sake,  and  be- 
cause Baird  said  all  good  mountaineers  went 
slowly  and  stopped  often.  They  stopped  once  in 
a  beech- wood,  full  of  rosy  and  amethyst  lights, 
bewildering  to  the  town -bred  Southerners,  and 
Curtis  Baird  made  Jacques  lie  down  flat  and  look 
up  at  the  bright  sky  through  the  leafy  tracery. 

They  stood  a  moment  at  the  foot  of  the  ledges, 
and,  through  an  opening  in  the  trees,  they  had 
their  first  sight  of  the  great  mountains  beyond, 
twenty  miles  away,  with  the  late  afternoon  haze 
upon  them.  Then  they  scrambled  up  the  ledges, 
laughing  over  their  scramble  till  they  were  all  in  a 
glow,  and  by  the  time  they  reached  the  little  cairn 
of  stones  upon  the  summit  their  dullness  was  gone. 

"That  at  the  far  end  of  the  valley  is  Cherry 
Mountain,"  said  Curtis  Baird.  "You  can  even 
see  the  slide  down  one  side  of  it,  —  do  you  see  ? 
And  there  are  the  great  ones." 

They  looked  a  long  time  at  the  great  ones,  four 
in  all,  one  pointed  and  sharp  on  the  sky-line,  one 
gently  pyramidal,  one  low  and  lightly  curved, 
and  one,  the  highest  of  all,  a  great  billow  swell- 
ing up  to  the  sky. 

Roma  Campion  had  a  conventional  and  com- 
paratively intimate  acquaintance  with  the  Alps, 
but  Jacques  and  Jocelin  came  from  a  flat  coun- 
try ;  mountains  were  new  to  them. 


228  DIANA    VICTRIX 

Jacques  took  off  his  cap,  threw  back  his  head, 
and  when,  after  a  moment,  he  turned  his  face  to 
Enid  for  sympathy,  he  was  smiling.  There  was 
more  of  the  vivacity  of  the  old  Jacques  about 
him  than  there  had  been  for  many  a  day. 

Jocelin  stood  on  a  rock  and  looked  far,  far 
away  to  those  shining  mountains,  and  sang  the 
one  hundred  and  twenty -first  psalm.  Sylvia  had 
never  heard  him  sing  so  well.  Sweet  and  full 
and  solemn  rose  the  music,  winging  from  his  lips 
out  to  those  listening  hills  that  lifted  up  them- 
selves all  bloom-impurpled  by  the  dying  sun. 

"  I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills,  from 
whence  cometh  my  help. 

"  I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes,  I  will  lift  up  mine 
eyes,  unto  the  hills,  the  hills,  from  whence  cometh 
my  help. 

"My  help  cometh  even  from  the  Lord,  from 
the  Lord  who  hath  made  heaven,  —  heaven  and 
earth."  .  .  . 

All  these  people  knew  Jocelin  very  well,  and 
they  were  none  of  them  devoid  of  a  sense  of 
humor,  and  yet  it  did  not  seem  to  impress  them 
as  humorous  that  Jocelin  should  stand  on  the  top 
of  a  little  mountain  at  sunset  and  sing  the  one 
hundred  and  twenty -first  psalm,  —  sing  it  with 
the  reverence  and  the  sincerity  of  a  seraph. 

But  there  was  a  great  deal  of  humor  in  the 
situation,  notwithstanding. 

Pink  clouds  drifted  about  in  the  sky,  the  sun 


CLIMBING   THE  MOUNTAIN  229 

went  down  behind  the  hills,  and  the  valley  far 
below  drowsed  in  the  twilight. 

"I  am  awfully  hungry,"  said  Jacques. 

Curtis  Baird  made  the  coffee  in  a  villanous 
black  coffee-pot,  Jocelin  cut  the  bread,  Roma 
made  sandwiches,  Sylvia  laid  the  viands  out  on 
a  flat  rock  and  trimmed  them  with  leaves. 
Jacques  brought  pine  and  hemlock  and  spruce  to 
Enid,  and  watched  her  make  spring-beds  in  the 
two  open  camps.  Then  they  all  sat  around  the 
flat  rock  and  ate  their  supper,  and  watched  the 
mountains  and  the  valley  sink  away  from  them 
into  darkness,  leaving  them  shut  out  from  the 
world,  till  the  large  round  moon  rose  on  the  other 
side  and  lifted  up  the  valley  a  little  way  out  of 
the  abyss  and  set  it  smiling  silverly,  and  beck- 
oned the  mountains  from  the  darkness,  but  only 
a  little  way,  for  they  stopped  and  stood  aloof 
mysteriously,  great  shadows. 

Curtis  Baird  unrolled  the  shawls  and  camping- 
blankets,  and  made  his  wife  put  on  her  jacket. 

"And  you  have  spent  nights  all  alone  on  the 
top  of  this  thing?"  said  Jacques.  "What  a 
queer  fellow  you  are!  " 

The  small  supper-fire  had  gone  out,  and  Baird 
was  piling  up  great  birch  logs  and  putting  pine 
branches  on  top. 

"Not  going  to  have  a  fire?"  said  Jacques 
uneasily. 

"Of  course,"  returned  Baird.     "What  did  you 


230  DIANA   VICTEIX 

suppose?  Always  have  a  camp-fire.  Takes  the 
chill  off  in  the  middle  of  the  night." 

Jacques  squared  his  chin  and  thrust  his  hands 
into  his  pockets,  but  said  nothing. 

It  was  a  beautiful  fire,  just  between  the  two 
open  camps,  —  the  lean-tos  made  of  stones  with 
boughs  laid  over  for  the  roofs,  —  open  to  the  fire, 
the  moon,  the  rain,  too,  if  it  chose  to  come  down ; 
but  the  clouds  were  gone,  and  the  moon  was  sail- 
ing in  a  clear  sky. 

Three  and  three  they  gathered  around  the 
crackling  flames. 

"We  might  tell  ghost  stories?"  suggested 
Baird. 

Jacques  gave  a  stifled  exclamation ;  it  sounded 
like  "My  God!" 

"Let 's  get  away  from  this !  "  he  said  a  moment 
later  in  a  gasping  voice  to  Enid,  who  sat  next  to 
him,  and  she  arose  at  once. 

"I  —  we  —  we  '11  go  and  look  at  the  moon  for 
a  while,"  said  Jacques  to  Baird.  "Fire  's  hot, 
—  get  a  little  air."  He  was  still  gasping  and 
trying  to  control  his  voice  as  he  turned  his  back 
on  the  flames  and  followed  Enid  across  the  rocks. 

"I  wouldn't  have  believed  I  could  be  such  a 
fool!  "  said  Curtis  Baird  slowly.  "Poor  old  fel- 
low! Roma,  why  didn't  you  give  me  a  hint? 
What  an  unlucky  speech!  " 


CHAPTER   III 

JACQUES   AND   ENID 

THE  place  where  Jacques  and  Enid  went  was 
a  broad,  sloping  ledge  covered  with  a  deep  lichen, 
pale  green  and  pale  lavender  that  had  turned 
silver  under  the  moon.  The  smiling  valley  was 
no  longer  at  their  feet,  for  they  were  on  the  other 
side  of  the  mountain.  They  had  come  upon  the 
wilderness,  and  they  looked  down  on  thick  tree- 
tops  everywhere.  Over  the  edge  of  the  ledge  a 
ravine  sank  away,  black  with  mystery;  and  oppo- 
site, above  them,  the  shoulder  of  a  near  mountain 
loomed  huge  and  austere,  the  untrodden  forests 
on  its  sides  silent  and  absolutely  still  in  a  moon- 
begotten  sleep.  The  place  was  all  wildness  and 
solitude.  Far  below,  something  crashed  in  the 
bushes,  and  the  stillness  came  again. 

Enid  and  Jacques  sat  down  on  the  dry,  crisp 
lichen  and  looked  out  over  the  wilderness. 

"I  can't  be  making  a  fool  of  myself  like  this," 
said  Jacques;  "it  won't  do.  But  it  was  the  first 
out-of-doors  fire  I  'd  seen  since  —  since  —  And 
it  brought  it  all  back  to  me." 

Enid  said  nothing.     She  was  glad  to  have  him 


232  DIANA   VICTEIX 

talk  of  Jeanne ;  she  felt  safer  when  he  talked  of 
Jeanne,  but  she  was  afraid  of  something  else. 

"I  miss  her,"  he  continued.  "I  did  not  know 
I  should  miss  her  so  much,  but  it  appears  she 
was  everywhere  in  that  old  house,  and  now  she 
is  nowhere !  Her  hair !  was  it  not  the  brightest 
hair?  Once  I  saw  the  sunlight  against  the  wall 
in  the  courtyard,  and  for  a  second  I  forgot  and 
thought  it  was  her  hair.  She  always  came  to  me 
when  I  entered  the  house.  She  was  my  child 
from  the  beginning.  I  miss  her,  because  she 
was  always  near,  as  a  child  is  near." 

"I  am  glad,  — glad  that  you  miss  her,"  said 
Enid. 

They  were  speaking  softly,  because  the  hush  of 
the  forests  compelled  them.  Enid  discovered 
that,  when  Jacques  spoke  low,  his  voice  was  deep 
and  almost  gentle. 

"I  miss  you,  too,"  he  said. 

His  tone  was  dangerous,  and  she  hastened  to 
reply  with  a  polite  and  cheerful  inflection. 

"I  am  very  glad  of  that,  also." 

"I  felt  at  first,  when  she  died,  as  if  I  were  a 
criminal,"  he  resumed.  "It  was  an  entirely  new 
sensation.  It  was  horrible!  I  believe  I  must 
have  behaved  like  a  maniac  that  night.  I  do  not 
remember.  I  had  been  so  unsettled,  so  disturbed, 
so  unhappy,  for  a  long  time  before.  You  did 
not  know  that?" 

She  did  not  answer.     She  thought  perhaps  he 


JACQUES  AND  ENID  233 

would  go  on  without  waiting,  but  he  repeated  his 
question  wistfully :  — 

"Did  you  know?" 

"Yes,— I  knew." 

v  She  was  so  sorry  for  him,  and  she  was  not 
used  to  dealing  with  men.  She  wished  at  once 
that  she  had  said  something  else,  had  temporized, 
had  asked  him  why  he  thought  she  ought  to  know. 
She  was  a  New  England  woman  and  a  woman's 
woman,  and  her  habit  of  sympathy  had  betrayed 
her;  for  this  was  no  perplexed  and  over-spent 
college  friend,  or  woi'king-girl,  who  needed  to  be 
comforted :  this  was  a  young  man,  apparently  on 
the  verge  of  saying  intimate  and  solemn  things 
to  her,  which  she  felt  she  ought  not  to  allow  him 
to  say.  But  how  to  prevent  it  now? 

Jacques  himself  had  not  planned  this  conver- 
sation. He  only  loved  her,  and  it  was  in  the 
course  of  nature  that  he  should  tell  her  so  some 
day.  He  had  not  supposed  it  would  be  this  day, 
but  it  apparently  was,  so  he  proceeded  to  fulfill 
his  destiny. 

He  fulfilled  it  with  dispatch ;  that  was  Jacques' 
way.  He  said  tenderly :  — 

"I  love  you!     I  want  you  to  be  my  wife." 

"That  is  absurd!  "  said  Enid. 

She  answered  lightly,  but  she  wanted  to  laugh 
and  cry.  She  was  twenty-nine  years  old,  and 
this  was  the  first  time  any  man  had  ever  told  her 
he  loved  her,  had  ever  asked  her  to  be  his  wife. 


234  DIANA   VICTR1X 

This  was  the  great  feminine  event  of  her  life,  and 
she  was  deeply  moved  and  excited,  but  all  the 
answer  she  had  at  her  command  was,  "That  is 
absurd!  "  delivered  in  a  polite,  afternoon-tea  sort 
of  tone.  The  hysterical  tumult  within  her  made 
her  eyes  fill  with  tears  and  her  lips  twitch  smil- 
ingly, but  she  turned  her  face  from  Jacques. 

His  eyes  flashed. 

"I  lost  my  temper  once  when  you  were  unjust 
tome.  I  shall  not  now.  Why  is  it  absurd  ?" 

"Because  we  live  in  different  worlds." 

"Do  we?  "     He  looked  bewildered. 

"Yes!"  she  said.     "Yes!" 

"But  I  love  you,"  said  he. 

He  said  it  so  sweetly !  There  was  something 
so  wholesome  about  him !  She  wanted  to  pat  him 
affectionately,  as  she  would  have  patted  a  girl. 
But  the  situation  demanded  another  course  of 
action. 

"You  would  not  love  me  very  long,"  she  re- 
plied. 

"You  do  not  know  that." 

"True!     I  do  not  know,  but  I  think  so." 

"I  know,"  he  said,  speaking  slowly,  "that  you 
do  not  love  me.  But  you  like  me  very  much. 
Is  not  that  true?  " 

"Yes,  very  true." 

"Then  do  not  say  No.  Let  me  try  to  make 
you  love  me.  I  only  liked  you  very  much  at 
first,  but  now  I  love  you.  Give  me  leave  to  try." 


JACQUES  AND  ENID  235 

"It  would  not  be  of  any  use." 

"You  do  not  know  that." 

"Yes,  that  is  one  of  the  things  I  do  know. 
Listen !  and  I  will  tell  you  something  about  my 
life.  You  think  you  understand  the  real  me, 
but  you  don't.  No,  really!  Do  not  be  angry." 

He  smiled  and  leaned  towards  her,  looking 
steadily  at  her  with  his  determined  gray  eyes, 
and  saying :  — 

"When  you  have  finished,  however,  I  shall 
continue  to  think  just  as  I  do  now.  I  shall  con- 
tinue to  love  you." 

She  had  a  hopeless  feeling  that  what  he  said 
would  prove  perfectly  true,  but  she  shook  her 
head  at  him  with  equal  determination,  smiling  in 
her  turn. 

They  looked  at  each  other  so  for  a  moment, 
he  compelling,  she  resisting,  and  that  bright 
smile  in  the  eyes  of  both.  Then  Enid  turned 
away  with  a  sense  of  effort,  and  weariness  of  the 
struggle  to  come. 

The  great  sweep  and  slope  of  the  mountain- 
side lying  beyond  the  ravine  in  the  moonlight 
rested  her,  freed  her  from  the  strain  of  Jacques' 
insistent  human  nearness,  and  she  kept  her  eyes 
upon  it  as  she  talked.  The  moonlight  glistened 
on  her  heavy  coils  of  hair  and  outlined  the  statu- 
esque pose  of  her  head  and  the  large,  classic  cor- 
rectness of  her  profile.  A  glow  crept  into  her 
face  as  she  talked.  She  was  a  pure  joy  to  look 


236  DIANA    VICTRIX 

upon;  she  would  be  a  warm  delight  to  touch. 
She  forgot  to  look  at  Jacques,  and  it  was  just  as 
well. 

"I  am  going  down  to  the  city  next  week  to 
begin  to  live  my  life,"  she  said.  "I  am  going 
down  to  a  little  court  that  opens  into  a  narrow, 
crooked  street,  that  opens  again  into  a  sticky, 
smelly,  crowded  thoroughfare.  And  I  am  going 
to  live  there,  or  thereabout,  all  the  rest  of  my 
life." 

Her  voice  was  very  quiet,  but  there  was  some- 
thing more  than  moonlight  shining  to  make  her 
face  so  radiant. 

"  The  people  on  the  floor  above  me  are  a  widow 
and  her  son  and  daughter;  they  have  lodgers. 
The  people  on  the  floor  below  are  a  carpenter 
and  his  family.  There  is  a  garment-workers' 
shop  in  the  garret.  An  actor  and  his  wife  and 
babies  live  in  the  cellar.  I  know  the  widow 
and  the  actor's  wife.  It  is  a  respectable  house, 
and  Sylvia  has  obtained  permission  to  spend 
the  winter  there,  so  her  father  has  seen  to  the 
plumbing." 

Jacques  moved  restlessly,  but  Enid  kept  on. 

"I  shall  go  from  there  to  my  teaching,  and 
lecture-classes.  Sylvia,  if  she  is  well  enough, 
will  write.  Perhaps,"  —  her  mouth  curved  be- 
witchingly,  —  "perhaps,  after  a  while,  if  I  live 
long  enough  and  fully  enough,  I  shall  write  a 
book  of  statistics  and  social  theories.  I  think  I 


JACQUES  AND  ENID  237 

can  earn  something  by  social  essays  in  the  maga- 
zines now  and  then.  I  wanted  to  do  this  last 
winter,  but  Sylvia  needed  me  first,  and  I  went 
with  her.  I  wanted  to  do  it  this  summer,  but 
my  aunt,  who  brought  me  up,  needed  me  for  a 
little  while.  Now  I  am  free  to  live  as  I  was 
meant  to  live.  I  will  not  be  withheld  any  longer. 
I  do  not  want  to  marry  you." 

"You  could  still  do  your  charity  work  if  you 
married  me,"  said  Jacques.  "The  married  wo- 
men in  New  Orleans  are  always  busy  over  that 
sort  of  thing." 

"Charity  work!"  smiled  Enid.  "I  told  you 
we  lived  in  different  worlds.  This  is  not  charity 
work  that  I  expect  to  do;  I  have  no  scheme,  no 
plan  of  action.  I  shall  get  up  in  the  morning 
and  go  to  my  work,  along  with  all  those  others 
who  are  earning  their  living.  I  shall  only  live 
there,  that  is  all.  Perhaps  in  summer  I  may 
come  sometimes  up  here  to  these  unpeopled  moun- 
tains. I  should  like  to  come,  and  sit  here  at 
night  with  some  one  who  has  never  known  the 
meaning  of  solitude.  I  should  like  to  come. 
Ah,  is  it  not  beautiful,  that  mountain  wall  with 
its  dreaming  forests  ?  I  know  you  do  not  under- 
stand what  I  am  trying  to  tell  you ;  I  know  you 
do  not  understand,  because  it  is  the  thing  that 
goes  deepest  into  my  heart,  and  there  are  no 
words  as  deep  down  as  that.  How  can  I  make 
you  know  the  reality  of  it?  The  world  has  spat- 


238  DIANA    VICTEIX 

tered  us  all  over  with  words,  with  cant  phrases, 
with  sarcasm,  and  with  fulsome  flattery.  The 
world  has  been  so  officiously  eager  to  explain  for 
us  the  thing  we  mean  and  the  worth  of  the  thing 
that  now,  when  we  try  to  speak,  our  meaning 
is  veiled,  concealed,  smothered,  by  the  hideous 
volubility  of  facile  expression.  How  can  it  have 
any  reality  for  you  when  you  hear  only  words 
about  it?  Listen!  I  could  not  live  with  you  in 
peace  and  plenty  when  there  were  people  who 
swarmed  in  cellars,  and  had  not  the  price  of  a 
crust  of  bread  among  them.  And  that  is  a  cant 
expression.  Get  at  the  life-meaning,  the  heart 
of  it,  if  you  can." 

"You  should  have  as  much  money  as  I  could 
spare,  to  give  away  as  you  pleased,"  said  Jacques. 
"You  would  have  more  to  give  away  than  you 
have  now." 

She  smiled  ironically. 

"Money  that  you  have  made  by  gambling  in 
cotton  futures  for  other  people?  Money  that 
you  have  made  by  ruining  one  man  in  order  to 
surfeit  another?  Oh,  no!" 

"  That  is  all  nonsense !  "  said  Jacques.  "  I  buy 
and  sell  cotton  for  my  clients  at  the  best  possible 
advantage  for  them,  and  at  a  fair  rate  of  com- 
mission. That  is  business.  The  firm  never  spec- 
ulates. A  woman  does  not  understand  these 
things.  Business  cannot  be  conducted  on  senti- 
mental principles." 


JACQUES  AND  ENID  239 

"If  I  were  a  girl,"  said  Enid,  "and  if  I  were 
in  love  with  you,  I  suppose  it  would  be  easy  for 
me  to  shift  the  responsibility  of  these  questions 
upon  you,  and  rely  upon  your  judgment,  and  my 
own  conviction  that  you  are  an  honorable  man, 
—  for  that  is  my  conviction." 

His  eyes  lighted  tenderly,  and  again  he  leaned 
towards  her,  but  she  continued  without  looking 
at  him :  — 

"But  a  girl's  love  is  not  a  woman's  love;  above 
all,  it  is  not  a  modern  woman's  love.  I,  at  thirty, 
cannot  accept  your  views,  adopt  your  methods, 
and  believe  your  heresies,  as  you  might  be  able 
to  teach  me  to  do  if  I  were  eighteen,  —  and  if  I 
loved  you.  I  have  found  out  my  own  life-truths, 
and  they  do  not  accord  with  yours." 

"A  husband  and  a  wife  are  comrades,"  mur- 
mured Jacques ;  "  they  modify  each  other.  You 
should  not  find  me  adamant  to  your  convictions 
if  you  married  me,  for  I  love  you." 

"But  I  don't  love  you." 

"Not  now!  Not  now!  But  it  is  not  an  im- 
possibility that  you  should  love  me." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Can't  you  understand?  I  do  not  want  to 
marry  you.  I  shall  never  want  to  marry  you." 

"I  want  you,"  said  Jacques;  "I  want  you! 
You  have  spoiled  all  other  women  for  me." 

"We  do  not  touch,"  she  answered.  "Ldo  not 
see  why  you  love  me.  A  husband  and  a  wife 


240  DIANA    VICTRIX 

confide  in  each  other,  live  at  the  heart  of  each 
other.  But  we  do  not.  You,  who  tell  rne  I  may 
have  money  to  spend  in  charity ;  you,  who  expect 
me  to  live  with  you  and  ignore  your  methods  of 
supporting  me,  your  methods  of  dealing  with 
your  fellow-men,  —  do  you  think  you  get  near  the 
heart  of  my  life?  Why!  My  life  is  just  that; 
it  is  my  fellow-men.  And  I,  —  see  how  ignorant, 
how  unappreciative  of  you  I  am,  for  I  do  not 
even  know  what  your  central  effort  is,  the  thing 
you  are  striving  for.  What  is  the  heart  of  your 
life?" 

"It  is  you!  "  he  said  simply. 

Her  heart  jumped,  and  she  sat  very  still  for  a 
moment,  then  bowed  her  head  upon  her  knees. 
When  she  lifted  her  face  and  looked  out  once 
again  over  the  ravine,  there  were  tears  in  her 
eyes,  and  they  caught  the  moonlight. 

"I  could  not  make  you  happy,"  she  began,  but 
he  interrupted  her  with :  — 

"Let  me  judge  of  that!  " 

"No,  no!  There  is  something  else  you  cannot 
understand.  I  do  not  need  you.  It  is  true  I 
have  no  man  friend  whom  I  enjoy  as  much  as  I 
do  you,  but  I  have  a  woman  friend  who  is  dearer 
to  me." 

"But  I  told  you  once  before,  that  is  different," 
insisted  Jacques. 

"Yes,  I  know  you  told  me,"  she  answered; 
"but  I  know  my  own  heart.  I  share  with  her 


JACQUES  AND  ENID  241 

thoughts  that  I  have  no  wish  to  share  with  you. 
I  give  to  her  a  love  surpassing  any  affection  I 
could  teach  myself  to  have  for  you.  She  comes 
first.  She  is  my  friend  as  you  can  never  be,  and 
I  could  not  marry  you  unless  you  were  a  nearer 
friend  than  she.  You  would  have  to  come  first. 
And  you  could  not,  for  she  is  first." 

"And  this  is  all  that  separates  us? "  said 
Jacques,  in  a  tone  of  entire  amazement.  "Only 
a  woman?" 

"The  reason  the  woman  separates  us,"  said 
Enid,  "is  because  the  woman  and  I  understand 
each  other,  sympathize  with  each  other,  are  neces- 
sary to  each  other.  And  you  and  I  are  not. 
It  is  not  simply  her  womanliness,  it  is  her  friend- 
ship. There  might  be  a  man  who  could  give  me 
the  inspiration,  the  equalness  of  sympathy,  I  find 
in  her,  —  there  might  be,  —  some  women  find 
such  men.  But  there  are  not  yet  enough  for  all 
of  us." 

Jacques  got  up  and  paced  the  ledge. 

"You  —  you  are  noble!  "  he  said. 

He  came  back  presently  and  sat  down  beside 
her  as  before. 

"She  is  very  delicate,"  he  began  angrily. 
"Have  you  ever  thought  how  alone  you  would  be 
if  she  were  to  die?  " 

"She  will  not  die!"  whispered  Enid.  "Oh, 
she  will  not  die!  Not  now.  She  is  getting 
well." 


242  DIANA   VICTRIX 

He  did  not  understand  the  anguish  in  her 
voice,  the  wretchedness  in  her  eyes,  but  some- 
thing made  him  lean  forward  and  say :  — 

"If  she  were  to  marry?" 

Enid's  face  grew  gray  like  the  rocks  of  the 
ledge.  She  did  not  turn  her  eyes  away  this 
time ;  she  kept  them  fixed  stonily  on  him. 

"Well?"  she  said. 

And  he  had  no  reply  to  make. 

"I  am  going  to  live  down  among  the  people 
who  have  next  to  nothing,"  she  resumed  after 
a  pause,  speaking  in  a  natural  voice.  "I  cannot 
make  you  understand  by  words.  Perhaps  some 
time  I  may  make  you  understand  by  life.  And, 
for  the  other,  my  own  private  and  personal  hap- 
piness, or  unhappiness,  —  that  you  cannot  alter, 
you  cannot  influence.  My  sorrow  is  only  sym- 
bolic of  the  great  world-sorrow,  after  all.  I 
trust  I  shall  not  overestimate  any  personal  grief 
which  may  come  to  me.  And  I  know  that  the 
best  way  to  keep  myself  free  from  self-pity  and 
morbidness  is  to  live  in  the  presence  of  a  greater 
sorrow  than  my  own.  And  then,  when  I  behold 
the  full  cup  of  bitterness  the  world  lifts  daily  to 
the  lips  of  God,  I  trust  I  shall  be  ashamed  to 
add  the  little  drop  of  what,  in  weaker  moments, 
I  call  my  suffering,  to  such  a  dignity  of  overflow- 
ing pain.  Come,  let  us  walk  a  little." 

"You  know  I  do  not  give  up  now,"  Jacques 


JACQUES  AND  ENID  243 

reiterated ;  u  I  shall  come  back  after  a  while,  after 
you  have  lived  as  you  say.  I  shall  come  back 
to  see  if  I  understand,  —  or  if  I  can  make  you 
understand." 

"Better  not!  "  she  answered. 


CHAPTER  IV 
MORE  WOMAN'S  RIGHTS 

"  So  you  and  I  are  to  change  places,  are  we, 
Jocelin?"  said  Curtis  Baird,  as  the  four  sat 
around  the  fire  after  the  abrupt  departure  of 
Jacques  and  Enid.  "You  are  to  turn  New 
Yorker,  and  I  am  to  take  root  in  Southern  soil?" 

"For  pity's  sake,  don't  talk  about  taking 
root!  "  exclaimed  Roma;  "it  gives  me  cold  shiv- 
ers." 

"  Queer !  "  meditated  Baird ;  "  such  a  hot  place, 
you  know.  What  are  the  prospects  for  New 
York,  Jocelin?  Anything  definite ?" 

"No,"  replied  Jocelin,  with  graceful  noncha- 
lance; "I  shall  look  around.  I  shall  visit  the 
choirs." 

"Rather  early  in  the  season  for  soirees,  recep- 
tions, that  sort  of  thing,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,"  said  Jocelin  musingly,  as  if  the  ques- 
tion had  no  practical  connection  whatever  with 
the  fact  of  his  coming  North  at  this  unseasonable 
moment.  "Yes,  I  believe  it  is." 

Sylvia  had  risen,  and  was  looking  off  towards 
the  valley. 


MORE   WOMAN'S  RIGHTS  245 

"  How  lovely !  I  should  like  to  go  and  look  at 
it  for  a  while." 

"May  I  come,  mademoiselle?  I  will  bring 
shawls,"  said  Jocelin. 

"  Take  that  brown  blanket  with  the  blue  border, 
in  the  left-hand  camp,"  said  Baird,  with  some  alac- 
rity. "Better  get  Roma's  steamer-rug,  too.  The 
flat  ledge  where  we  ate  our  supper  gives  the  best 
valley  view.  That 's  right,  —  the  gray  rug.  May 
want  a  cushion.  Good-by.  Half  past  nine  now. 
Eclipse  not  till  eleven.  Look  out  for  Miss  Sylvia 
going  down  to  the  ledge,  — pretty  slippery." 

These  remarks  were  addressed  snatchily  to  their 
retreating  figures.  When  the  two  were  fairly  out 
of  sight  he  said:  "Bless  you,  my  children!  "  with 
a  devoutly  gratified  expression  of  countenance, 
and  proceeded  to  throw  birch  logs  on  the  fire  and 
make  it  crackle  with  pine  branches.  Then  he 
came  and  sat  down  beside  his  wife,  —  quite  close 
beside  her. 

"Jolly,  isn't  it?"  he  said. 

She  did  not  answer. 

"Don't  you  like  it  here,  Roma?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied  gloomily. 

The  fire  blazed  merrily,  lighting  up  the  gay 
blankets  that  hung  within  the  two  camps. 

"When  do  we  go  South?"  asked  Roma. 

"Why,  my  dear,  I  don't  know  exactly.  I  'm 
afraid  we  ought  not  to  put  it  off  too  long.  That 
energetic  Jacques  is  getting  restive.  Says  he  '11 


246  DIANA   V1CTE1X 

throw  up  the  whole  thing  if  I  don't  give  it  some 
personal  attention.  Says  he  can't  run  it  alone; 
needs  somebody  in  the  office,  you  know.  When 
I  try  to  convince  him  that  I  am  about  as  useful  in 
the  office  as  a  pug  dog,  he  gets  huffy.  Says  he  's 
not  an  object  for  public  charity,  and  he  won't 
use  my  money  unless  I  know  how  it 's  being  used. 
Wants  to  know  what  I  ever  went  into  the  part- 
nership for,  anyway." 

"I  don't  see  why  you  ever  did,  myself,"  said 
Roma,  in  a  voice  from  the  tombs. 

The  ironic  twinkle  in  Baird's  eyes  became 
more  bright,  and  he  stretched  himself  lazily,  full 
length,  before  the  fire. 

"  I  had  a  theory  —  have  it  still,  for  that  matter 
—  that  I  ought  to  begin  to  be  an  active  mem- 
ber of  the  community,  —  ought  to  have  interests, 
you  know,  occupations,  that  sort  of  thing.  And 
there  was  young  Dumarais  drudging  along,  and 
no  thanks  from  anybody.  Seemed  as  little  as  I 
could  do,  under  the  circumstances,  to  give  him 
a  lift.  Had  to  do  something,  you  know,  and 
brokerage  seemed  rather  less  monotonous  than 
most  mercantile  pursuits.  All  that  yelling  and 
clawing  on  'Change,  you  know,  and  the  uncer- 
tainty as  to  whom  you  're  going  to  let  into  bank- 
ruptcy next  minute.  Rather  enlivening  than 
otherwise  when  you  feel  bored.  Don't  you  think 
so?  I  did." 

Roma   did  not  answer  his  question.     He  lay 


MORE    WOMAN'S  EIGHTS  247 

looking  up  at  her  from  beneath  his  quizzically 
drooping  eyelids,  with  his  elbows  on  the  ground 
and  his  chin  propped  in  his  hands.  And  she 
stared  over  his  head,  and  said  in  a  disagreeably 
quiet  voice :  — 

"Then  all  last  winter,  while  you  were  visiting 
me,  yon  knew  you  were  going  to  do  this,  and  you 
kept  it  from  me." 

"Jacques  asked  me  not  to  mention  it,"  ex- 
plained Baird.  "It  was  due  him  to  keep  it  dark 
till  he  was  ready  to  announce  it.'' 

"And  what  was  due  to  me?"  she  asked  po- 
litely. 

"Why,  Roma!  are  you  jealous?" 

He  leaned  on  one  elbow  and  laid  his  other 
hand  on  hers,  which  were  clasped  in  her  lap. 

"It  is  not  necessary  to  flatter  yourself  that 
I  am  jealous,"  she  replied  calmly,  and  he  with- 
drew his  hand.  "It  is  ordinarily  a  matter  of 
indifference  to  me  what  confidences  you  share 
with  Mr.  Dumarais  and  not  with  me ;  but  in  this 
case  I  fail  to  understand  how  you  justified  to 
yourself  the  right  which  you  assumed  of  disposing 
*  thus  arbitrarily  of  my  life  even  before  you  mar- 
ried me.  One  must  expect  to  endure  a  certain 
amount  of  tyranny  at  the  hands  of  a  husband, 
even  in  these  emancipated  days,  I  suppose;  but 
most  certainly  before  I  married  you,  —  before  I 
accepted  you,  —  I  had  a  right  to  be  consulted  on 
matters  relative  to  my  future  happiness.  You 


248  DIANA    VICTEIX 

had  no  adequate  excuse  for  imposing  restrictions 
upon  my  life  before  my  life  was  yours  to  order, 
and  concealing  these  restrictions  from  me  when 
you  asked  me  to  marry  you." 

"Disposing  of  your  life!  Restrictions!"  said 
Curtis  Baird,  sitting  up  and  staring  at  her. 
"That  was  the  last  thing  I  ever  intended." 

She  continued  to  speak  without  noticing  his 
interruption. 

"  I  never  hesitated  to  tell  you  how  I  hated  New 
Orleans.  You  were  quite  aware  of  it.  You  even 
led  me  on  sometimes  to  rail  and  deride.  And  all 
the  while  you  were  planning  that  I  should  live 
there." 

He  drew  a  sharp  breath,  and  looked  at  her  for 
a  moment  silently.  Then  he  said :  — 

"It  was  stupid  of  me.  But  when  I  asked  you 
to  marry  me,  it  did  not  occur  to  me  that  it  made 
any  difference  whether  we  lived  in  New  Orleans 
or  Orange  River  Free  State.  Seemed  only  an 
external  circumstance,  after  all.  But  I  see,  now, 
it  was  very  stupid  of  me." 

"If  you  had  even  told  me  when  you  asked 
me,"  she  continued,  with  quiet  bitterness,  —  "I 
had  no  right  to  know  of  your  affairs  before,  but 
I  did  have  then." 

"Would  you  have  refused  me  if  you  had 
•known?"  he  asked. 

And  she  said  nothing. 

"I  am  sorry  I  got  you  into  this  box,"  he  re- 


MORE   WOMAN'S  BIGHTS  249 

sumed  presently.  "I  never  meant  to  lead  you 
into  the  thing  and  not  tell  you  how  matters  stood. 
But  a  man  can't  always  know  just  what  he  '11  do 
when  he 's  in  love.  I  meant  to  let  you  hear 
about  the  business  arrangement  before  I  asked 
you,  but  I  lost  my  head  that  Sunday  night. 
And  then  —  and  then  it  did  n't  seem  as  if  I 
should  have  to  stay  there  much  of  the  time.  I 
thought  I  could  go  and  come  as  I  —  as  you 
chose.  I  didn't  know  the  thing  was  going  to  be 
a  hindrance  in  any  way." 

"Neither  did  I,"  she  said,  looking  down  and 
speaking  very  low,  very  wearily. 

He  might  have  reproached  her;  he  might  have 
told  her  he  had  given  her  a  chance  to  withdraw 
before  it  was  too  late,  if  she  wished  to  do  so, 
but  he  could  not  say  such  things  to  her.  He  got 
up  and  brought  another  log  for  the  fire,  and  when 
he  sat  down  he  said :  — 

"I  didn't  know  Dumarais  would  make  such 
a  point  of  my  being  on  hand.  I  suppose  he  is 
right.  It 's  no  way  to  treat  him,  you  know. 
Makes  the  clerks  respect  the  firm  more,  and 
gives  things  a  better  look,  to  have  me  round. 
Awful  bore,  but  I  'm  afraid  we  've  got  to  stand 
it.  I  'm  sorry." 

"I  don't  see  why  we  've  got  to  stand  it,"  said 
Roma.  "You  don't  need  to  keep  up  the  part- 
nership. If  you  want  the  excitement,  I  don't 
see  why  you  didn't  go  into  business  in  Wall 


250  DIANA   VICTRIX 

Street.  You  can.  It  isn't  necessary  to  stay 
down  there." 

Curtis  Baird  stroked  his  pointed  beard. 

"How  about  Jacques?"  he  said. 

"I  have  been  taking  it  for  granted  that  you 
cared  more  for  my  comfort  than  for  that  of  Mr. 
Dumarais,"  she  said  coolly.  "Perhaps  I  made 
a  mistake." 

He  pursed  his  lips  and  frowned  as  he  shoved 
the  fire  closer  together,  saying :  — 

"I  can't  pension  him  off,  you  know;  he  's  not 
that  kind.  And  if  I  'm  any  sort  of  an  honorable 
fellow  I  've  got  to  keep  to  the  agreement  till  the 
year  expires,  at  the  least.  No  sufficient  excuse 
for  dissolving  before  then." 

She  looked  indignant. 

"And — and  —  you  see,  a  man's  got  to  have 
capital  to  run  that  kind  of  business;  and  if  I 
leave  Jacques  in  the  lurch  at  the  year's  end, 
I've  —  I've  just  spoiled  his  prospects,  that's 
all.  I  'd  better  have  left  him  where  he  was.  He 
couldn't  get  in  with  his  old  firm  again,  and  it 
would  be  an  awful  rub  to  have  to  go  back  to 
a  salary." 

"He  found  you;  I  don't  see  why  he  couldn't 
find  somebody  else  to  go  in  with,  just  as  well." 

The  twinkle  had  died  out  of  Baird 's  eyes  some 
time  before,  but  now  it  came  back  for  a  moment 
as  he  said :  — 

"You  don't  find  men  like  me  every  day  in  the 


MORE   WOMAN'S   EIGHTS  251 

week,  my  dear.  I  'm  rather  exceptional,  on  the 
whole." 

But  she  refused  to  be  amused. 

"I  don't  see  why,  if  it  was  capital  he  wanted, 
why  he  is  n't  contented  with  that,  instead  of  tak- 
ing your  time,  too." 

"You  see,"  Baird  tried  to  explain,  "we  didn't 
arrange  it  that  way.  I  was  hungering  for  occu- 
pation about  that  time,  and  he  really  does  need 
me  on  hand  sometimes.  I  rather  enjoy  it,  too.  I 
catch  on  to  the  accounts  and  the  technique  of  the 
thing  quite  easily.  If  only  you  were  satisfied!  " 

"I  am  not  satisfied,"  she  said  decisively. 

"It  was  my  fault  in  the  very  beginning,"  he 
acknowledged,  "but  I  did  not  dream  I  should  be 
restricted  so." 

"I  know;  you  have  told  me  that  before,"  she 
answered.  "But  you  will  not  make  the  only 
reparation  I  ask  you  to  make.  You  will  not  give 
up  the  business." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  hate  the  place,"  she  continued.  "You 
should  have  found  out  what  was  expected  of  you 
in  the  firm  before  you  asked  me.  You  should 
not  have  taken  so  many  things  for  granted." 

She  forgot  that  she,  too,  had  taken  one  thing 
for  granted,  namely,  that  she  could  make  him  do 
as  she  pleased  after  she  married  him. 

"I  have  been  considerable  of  a  fool,"  he  said 
quietly. 


252  DIANA   VICTRIX 

He  did  not  once  reproach  her  for  not  confiding 
in  him  before  she  married  him. 

"But  you  will  do  nothing  to  remedy  it?" 

"No,  dear;  that  is,  not  till  Jacques  is  steady 
enough  on  his  feet  to  stand  alone,  and  that  will 
take  some  time.  He  does  n't  speculate,  and  it 's 
uphill  work  saving  money." 

They  arose  and  stood  by  the  fire  in  silence  a 
moment.  Then  she  faced  him,  and  her  eyes 
flashed  as  she  said  sharply :  — 

"What  is  to  be  done  about  it?  " 

They  looked  at  each  other  steadily  without 
speaking,  and  read  each  other's  thoughts  and  a 
certain  disagreeable  answer  to  that  question. 

"Except  that  it 's  so  horrid  vulgar,  you  know," 
said  Baird  quietly. 

She  turned  away  from  him,  and  went  to  one  of 
the  camps,  and  he  followed,  arranged  a  place  for 
her  on  the  spicy  fir  branches,  tucked  a  blanket 
around  her,  and  went  out  to  the  fire  again. 

As  she  lay  under  the  open  lean-to,  she  could 
see  him  sitting  by  the  fire  smoking  a  cigar.  He 
stared  into  the  flames  solemnly;  occasionally  he 
stroked  his  beard  with  meditative  deliberateness. 
Once  he  passed  his  hand  through  his  hair  with 
a  weary  gesture.  She  felt  a  lump  in  her  throat 
when  he  did  that,  and  she  closed  her  eyes  for 
a  few  minutes.  When  she  opened  them,  he  was 
sitting  as  before,  staring  through  the  fire. 

It  was  his  fault,   she  told  herself.     Yes,   but 


MORE   WOMAN'S  RIGHTS  253 

she  had  known,  she  had  had  time  enough  to  with- 
draw, —  she  told  herself  that,  too,  for  she  was 
sincere.  Why  hadn't  she  withdrawn?  she  asked 
herself  half  resentfully,  half  wonderingly,  look- 
ing out  at  him.  He  was  a  handsome  man.  She 
liked  his  being  so  handsome.  He  was  clever, 
also.  More  than  once  this  summer  she  had  felt 
proud  to  be  his  wife ;  it  had  been  a  new  sensation 
to  be  proud  because  of  her  connection  with  some 
one  else.  And  he  had  not  uttered  one  word  of 
reproach.  Roma  covered  her  face  with  the  blan- 
ket. 

Her  eyes  looked  rather  heavy  when  she  came 
out  later,  but  it  was  a  very  prickly  blanket. 


CHAPTER   V 

JOCELIN   AND    SYLVIA 

AND  down  on  the  flat  rock  overhanging  the 
valley  Sylvia  and  Jocelin  were  watching  the  mist 
gather  itself  ghost-like  out  of  the  air  just  above 
the  river  and  creep  downward  with  the  current. 
They  did  not  speak  for  a  long  time.  They 
watched  the  dark,  shadowy  mountains.  They 
followed  the  river,  here  a  gleam  of  silver,  there 
a  shroud  of  mist.  The  one  light  that  twinkled 
in  a  hollow  went  out  as  they  gazed.  The  smiling 
radiance  of  the  intervale  stretched  across  to  the 
base  of  the  mysterious  shadows  that  stood  uncer- 
tainly against  the  sky. 

Sylvia  seemed  a  part  of  the  moonlight,  a 
wraith-creature  palely  shining,  very  pure.  She 
had  never  meant  flesh  and  blood  to  Jocelin,  as 
other  women  did.  He  almost  wished  this  were 
not  so  —  to-night.  The  light  flashed  into  one  of 
the  rings  she  wore,  a  priceless,  antique  thing, 
dull  Indian  gold  and  a  great  flower  of  emerald- 
shavings  set  down  into  the  gold,  petalwise,  about 
a  rose  diamond.  It  hung  loose  and  heavy  upon 
her  slim  hand.  Jocelin  thought  of  something  his 


JOCELIN  AND  SYLVIA  255 

mother  had  said  once,  —  Mile.  Sylvia  was  rich. 
He  would  have  liked  to  be  able  to  touch  the  deli- 
cate, gem-burdened  hand,  but  —  he  did  not  want 
to. 

Jocelin  was  neither  mercenary  nor  practical; 
he  was  only  pleasure-loving,  and  it  gave  him 
more  pleasure  to  feel  the  unapproachable  chas- 
tity, the  separateness,  of  this  woman  than  to 
think  of  the  delights  he  might  purchase  with  her 
millions.  There  were  other  women  for  other 
uses.  Jocelin  had  the  sentimental  reverence  of 
the  unphilosophic  sensualist  for  innocence.  So 
long  as  he  could  gratify  his  senses  at  other  times, 
why  need  he  mar  the  spiritual  harmony  of  this 
unique  experience?  The  knowledge  that  he  was 
wiser  in  sin  than  she,  enhanced  for  him  the  exqui- 
siteness  of  his  self -fostered  melancholy.  Speak- 
ing to  her  of  love  would  mean,  if  she  responded, 
bringing  her  to  his  level,  —  there  was  nothing 
new,  nothing  piquante,  in  doing  that.  And,  if 
she  did  not  respond,  it  would  mean  disaster,  —  no 
more  moon-maiden,  untouched,  unconscious,  to  be 
worshiped. 

But  that  remark  of  his  mother's  remained  with 
him.  If  he  should  succeed !  She  was  very  rich ! 
It  would  be  comfortable  to  have  money.  Women 
were  women  after  all ;  and  during  the  months  of 
his  acquaintance  with  her,  he  had  had  a  curious 
feeling  that  the  next  time  he  saw  her,  the  next 
time  he  chose  to  look  at  her,  he  should  desire 


256  DIANA    VICTBIX 

her.  Perhaps  the  non-fulfillment  of  this  prophetic 
impression  attracted  him  quite  as  much  as  her 
innocence.  He  glanced  at  her,  half -expectant  of 
a  familiar  sensation  and  stimulus,  and  this  time 
also  she  baffled  him.  Not  a  line,  not  a  curve 
of  her,  aroused  unholy  appetite.  She  sat  very 
still.  Her  eyes  were  luminous  and  thoughtful; 
her  face  was  pale,  pure,  and  controlled.  Would 
it  be  worth  while,  would  it  be  interesting,  to  try 
to  arouse  her? 

"Mademoiselle,  you  told  me,  before  you  went 
away  from  the  South,  that  you  were  going  to  ask 
me  to  make  you  a  promise." 

"And  you  remembered  it?  "  she  said  smiling. 

"Yes,  I  remembered  it.  I  do  not  forget  the 
things  you  say  to  me." 

At  the  caress  of  his  voice  the  heart -hunger 
stirred  within  her,  tempting  her,  and  she  moved 
almost  imperceptibly  and  looked  at  him. 

"No,  I  do  not  forget,  because —  Will  you 
marry  me?  "  he  said. 

One  little  sign  from  her,  and  he  would  touch 
her.  Did  not  his  eyes  say  so?  Very  soft  they 
were,  those  eyes,  and  sad ;  the  ecstasy  of  sadness 
in  their  shining  depths  allured  her.  She  thought 
of  his  wretched  young  life,  and  the  pathos  of  it 
made  her  throat  ache.  What  did  it  matter  if  he 
had  sinned?  Whose  fault  was.it  that  this  was 
so  ?  Not  his !  Not  his,  with  the  sin-tainted  eyes 
confessing  and  unashamed,  —  not  his,  with  the 


JOCELIN  AND  SYLVIA  257 

seraph  mouth  and  the  seducer's  smile!  Would 
he  kiss  her  if  she  moved?  If  she  might  but 
touch  the  brown  throat,  the  soft,  short  hair! 
Other  women  were  given  these  joys.  What  was 
sin?  Could  he  help  it?  She  loved  him;  what 
did  it  matter  what  he  had  done?  Who  was  she 
that  she  should  withhold  herself  from  him  ?  She 
thought  of  his  naive  confession,  —  "I  have  done 
many  wicked  things;  I  have  been  very  dissi- 
pated," —and  its  childlike  frankness  seemed  to 
divest  his  misdemeanors  of  their  blackness.  She 
thought  of  those  musing  words :  "  It  has  always 
seemed  to  me  that  it  is  presumptuous  in  me  to 
think  that  I  could  love  a  human  being,  a  woman, 
with  the  holiness,  the  unselfishness,  that  the  word 
4  love  '  means  to  me.  Others  claim  that  they  do 
it,  but  how  can  they  hope  to?" 

If  he  could  say  this,  if  he  could  feel  this  with 
the  best  of  him,  what  did  other  things  matter? 
Other  women  gave  themselves  to  men  that  they 
loved.  Why  must  she  deny  herself?  He  would 
give  her  the  caresses  she  might  ask;  his  voice 
said  it,  his  eyes  said  it,  his  lips  waited.  One 
little  motion,  Sylvia;  will  you  make  it?  See! 
his  eyes  are  growing  sure  that  you  will. 

He  will  give  her  what  she  asks,  because  she 
loves  him.  Yes,  she  knows  this.  He  will  give 
her  her  pleasure,  and  he  will  take  his  pleasure, 
willingly,  because  she  —  loves  him.  He  will 
touch  her ;  he  will  take  her  in  his  arms,  here  in 


258  DIANA   VICTRIX 

the  moonlight  on  the  mountain-top.  Ah,  the  red 
mouth  trembling!  His  eyes  are  very  certain  of 
what  she  will  do.  Too  certain,  Jocelin;  it  was 
not  wise. 

His  red  mouth  will  burn  upon  her  lips,  kissing 
her.  Why  will  he  kiss  her  if  he  does  not  love 
her? 

Yes,  Sylvia,  answer  the  question  to  your  heart, 
and  then  —  show  us  how  low  you  intend  to  fall. 

How  does  she  know  he  does  not  love  her?  She 
knows!  Any  woman  would  know.  If  he  did 
love  her,  would  there  be  sin  black  enough  to 
keep  them  apart?  How  could  there  be?  Is  she 
willing  that  he  should  kiss  her?  Is  she  willing 
that  he  should  take  her  in  his  arms,  not  loving 
her  ?  There  are  women  —  who  would  be  will- 
ing. What  are  such  women  called?  Is  it  to 
be  as  low  as  that,  Sylvia,  —  because  you  love 
him? 

He  is  waiting.  Look  into  his  eyes!  He  is 
very  sure  of  what  you  will  do.  Will  you? 

"Sit  farther  off,"  said  Sylvia.  "I  have  some- 
thing to  say  to  you." 

He  bent  his  head  and  drew  himself  away,  al- 
most to  her  feet.  Decidedly,  he  had  aroused 
her !  And  the  result  was  to  be  more  interesting 
than  he  had  supposed. 

"O  voice,  O  music!  do  not  be  a  lost  soul!" 
she  said,  and  her  own  voice  was  full  of  the  soft, 
sighing  quality  of  the  night  wind. 


JOCELIX  AND   SYLVIA  259 

"Go  apart  from  me  and  make  ready  our  de- 
fense against  the  coming  of  the  Judgment  Day. 
Speak  for  me !  How  shall  I  have  need  to  speak 
after  the  Divine  Pity  has  heard  the  music  of  your 
pleading?  Tell  Him,  the  Judge,  that  you  have 
tempted  me,  —  that  it  is  accomplished.  He  will 
know  if  I  have  fallen.  I  do  not  know.  Tell 
Him  I  have  gone  through  the  remainder  of  my 
life  with  the  taint  upon  me,  rejoicing,  not  that 
I  have  overcome  the  temptation,  but  that  I  have 
known  what  it  is  to  desire  the  things  of  the  flesh. 
Tell  Him  I  have  forsaken  irresolution  and  tasted 
of  the  fruit  of  the  Tree  of  Knowledge.  That 
which  is  evil  I  have  looked  upon,  knowing  its 
name,  and  henceforth  I  choose  the  good.  These 
things  you  are  to  tell  Him,  defending  me,  and 
then  the  terrible  thing  at  the  end.  Tell  Him  — 
I  do  not  repent.  Ask  Him  if  I  must.  He  will 
know.  Do  not  lie  there  with  your  face  against 
the  rock  and  moan;  there  is  no  need  of  your 
remorse.  I  am  nearer  salvation  because  of  you. 
But  I  do  not  want  to  repent.  It  is  the  taint  that 
is  upon  me,  and  perhaps  that  brings  salvation,  — 
I  do  not  know." 

She  looked  down  at  him  as  he  lay  crouched 
upon  the  rock,  his  face  hidden  against  her  dress; 
and  when  she  spoke  again,  there  was  an  added 
tenderness  in  her  words :  — 

"  But  it  is  not  alone  for  me  that  you  shall  plead 
when  the  Day  comes,  O  tired  voice,  all  worn  and 


260  DIANA    VICTRIX 

wasted  here  on  earth  I  What  will  it  matter  when 
we  are  in  heaven  and  your  spirit  sings?  " 

He  moved,  and  she  added  hurriedly :  — 

"Take  away  your  lips  from  the  hem  of  my 
gown !  "  Then,  touched  by  his  obedience :  — 

"If  it  comforts  you  to  know  it,  I  grieve,  too. 
But  now  you  are  to  go  away  from  me.  You 
have  well-nigh  destroyed  your  earthly  voice;  it 
is  time  to  build  a  heavenly  one  in  your  soul.  It 
has  come  to  me  that  Jeanne  will  teach  you. 
That  was  why  she  was  taken  away  so  young,  so 
lovely,  with  all  her  world  before  her." 

Sylvia  was  explaining  gently,  as  if  to  a  child. 

"God  took  her  away  to  give  you  something  to 
do,  and  to  save  your  soul  alive.  It  is  not  very 
glorious,  the  writing  of  little  fragile  songs  that 
some  one  else  has  made.  But,  alas!  I  do  not 
think  that  you  are  fit  for  anything  glorious  now. 
All  Jeanne's  music  that  she  used  to  make  has 
gone  to  heaven  with  her,  and  we  on  earth  can- 
not do  without  that  music.  Bring  it  back  to  us ! 
It  is  not  your  name  that  God  means  shall  be 
famous;  it  is  Jeanne's.  This  is  the  promise  you 
are  to  make  me :  You  are  to  save  your  voice,  that 
you  may  sing  Jeanne's  songs;  to  keep  your  head 
clear  and  your  hand  steady,  that  you  may  write 
Jeanne's  music.  For  Jeanne's  sake,  and  the 
world's  sake, — and  mine  —  mine!  If  the  great 
multitude  stands  before  the  throne  of  the  Lamb, 
singing  praise  night  and  day,  and  your  voice  is 


JOCELIN  AND  SYLVIA  261 

not  there,  I  do  not  think  God  will  call  that  place 
heaven.  And  if  I  die,  and  enter  into  a  darkness 
full  of  groans  and  terrible  cries,  and  still  I  hear 
you,  I  shall  not  be  in  hell.  And  I  shall  be  ac- 
cursed ! " 

She  stopped  with  a  gasp,  as  if  she  found  her- 
self saying  more  than  she  had  intended  to  say. 

Jocelin  shivered  convulsively,  and  began  to 
sob  in  an  hysterical  fashion,  unrestrainedly,  as 
a  woman  might  have  done.  He  clung  to  her 
gown  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips.  Sylvia  pulled 
the  skirt  away,  almost  roughly,  and  stood  up  on 
the  rock  out  of  his  reach,  and,  as  the  low,  smoth- 
ered sound  of  his  weeping  continued,  she  turned 
her  back  upon  where  he  lay,  and  flung  up  her 
arms  with  a  gesture  of  despair.  Even  a  spiritual 
union  with  him  seemed  a  little  flat  just  then. 

She  looked  out  upon  the  moonlit  valley,  her 
exaltation  gone,  a  sense  of  chill  and  disappoint- 
ment, even  of  disgust,  at  her  heart.  And  all 
this  because  her  own  words  had  made  him  weep. 
If  Sylvia  herself  had  been  endowed  with  fewer 
hysterical  possibilities,  or  less  self-control,  she 
might  not  have  felt  the  disgrace  of  his  tears  so 
keenly. 

"Do  not  be  a  lost  soul!"  she  said  wearily. 
"Do  not  be  a  lost  soul!  " 

She  could  think  of  nothing  else  to  say,  and 
something  in  her  tone  —  it  may  have  been  indif- 
ference —  checked  his  crying.  He  raised  him- 


262  DIANA    VICTEIX 

self,  and  saw  her  standing  with  her  back  to  him, 
and  his  face  grew  a  dull  red. 

Jocelin  was  neither  intellectual  nor  spiritual, 
but  he  was  sensitive,  and  he  had  an  instinct  for 
the  dramatic  fitness  of  things.  That  was  why, 
at  the  present  crisis,  he  did  not  speak;  he  only 
waited,  kneeling  on  the  rock,  looking  towards 
her,  with  shame  and  terror  and  self-loathing  in 
his  eyes,  until  she,  becoming  conscious  of  the  still- 
ness, turned  and  saw  him. 

"Ah!  I  hate,  hate,  hate  myself!"  he  whis- 
pered fiercely. 

She  waited,  saying  nothing. 

"I  promise!"  he  said,  and  groaned,  and  hid 
his  face  in  his  hands. 

Her  pity  awoke  then,  with  a  little  of  her  love, 
and  she  said :  — 

"  Sing  to  me,  that  I  may  carry  away  the  mem- 
ory of  your  voice,  — your  voice  alone,  the  God- 
given  part  of  you.  Sing,  for  I  do  not  want  to 
remember  other  things." 

And  again  he  sang  the  one  hundred  and  twenty- 
first  psalm.  But  this  time  there  was  no  humor 
in  the  situation. 


CHAPTER  VI 

DURING  THE  WEE   SMA'    HOURS 

"I  SAY,  you  people,  look  at  that  moon! " 

The  voice  was  that  of  Jacques,  uplifted  from 
a  vantage-point  above  the  camp,  whither  he  and 
Enid  had  wandered. 

"By  Jove!  So  it  is!  "  said  Curtis  Baird,  and 
he  dusted  the  cigar -ashes  off  the  front  of  his  flan- 
nel shirt.  "Roma!" 

Roma  came  out  from  beneath  the  lean-to  with 
very  tired  eyes.  Her  husband  glanced  at  her, 
took  down  a  blanket  that  hung  in  the  camp, 
and  saying,  "This  is  the  way  we  do  it!"  pro- 
ceeded to  wrap  it  around  her  lengthwise,  Indian 
fashion. 

"Now  crawl  up  behind  the  other  lean-to! 
They  're  up  there,  and  it 's  a  good,  open-sky  sort 
of  place.  I  '11  bring  a  blanket  for  Miss  Enid 
presently.  Not  cold,  are  you?  " 

"No." 

She  liked  being  taken  care  of.  She  liked  his 
being  such  a  gentleman.  And  she  had  said  such 
horrid  things  to  him ! 

She  found  Jacques  and  Enid  sitting  on  the 


264  DIANA    VICTRIX 

rock  above,  discussing  the  moon,  which  hung  in 
the  sky  like  a  bitten  cracker. 

"Jocelin!  Jocelin!  "  called  Baird,  "bring 
Miss  Sylvia  up  on  top.  We  want  you  to  sing 
4  See  the  Pale  Moon.'  It 's  worth  seeing." 

And  finally  the  six  were  gathered  together  on 
the  rocks,  with  the  wide  sky  stretching  above 
and  around,  and  the  mutilated  moon  shedding  its 
slowly  diminishing  brightness  upon  them. 

They  all  munched  crackers  and  drank  coffee. 
No,  not  all,  for  Enid  was  a  homreopathist  and 
did  not  approve  of  coffee.  Jacques  had  tried  to 
convert  her  to  an  appreciation  of  its  merits  the 
winter  before,  but  had  failed. 

"Why  is  it  that  we  never  have  a  total  eclipse 
of  the  moon  except  when  the  moon  is  full?  I 
suppose  I  learned  why  once,  but  I  've  forgotten," 
said  Enid. 

"Because  that 's  the  only  time  the  moon  is  all 
on  hand,"  volunteered  Jacques. 

Baird  laughed.  "I  think  it  is  this  way,"  he 
said,  and  proceeded  to  explain  the  theory  by 
means  of  large  and  small  crackers,  and  a  tin  cup 
for  purposes  of  eclipse. 

His  wife  watched  him  silently,  comparing  him 
with  the  other  two  men.  He  had  not  the  practi- 
cal business  ability  of  Jacques,  nor  the  artistic- 
power  of  Jocelin,  but  he  had  more  culture  than 
either  of  them.  She  remembered  how  well  he 
had  known  all  the  little  plants  and  fungi  along 


DURING   THE   WEE  SMA'  HOURS         265 

the  path  as  they  came  up  the  mountain ;  how  he 
had  spied  tiny,  woodsy  things  that  none  of  the 
others  had  had  eyes  to  see  until  he  pointed  them 
out.  She  remembered  how  he  had  told  her  of 
spending  whole  days  alone  in  these  woods,  among 
these  mountains.  Alone!  It  implied  a  certain 
purity  of  soul  in  him  which  startled  her.  She 
looked  at  him  as  he  revolved  his  crackers,  that 
whimsical  smile  upon  his  lips,  the  wayward  twin- 
kle in  his  eyes.  She  thought  he  looked  tired, 
but  the  others  did  not  seem  to  notice  it.  She 
found  herself  ruminating  upon  the  idea  that  he 
was  pleasanter  to  live  with  than  either  of  the 
other  men. 

He  finished  his  explanation  and  ate  the  crack- 
ers as  an  illustration  of  the  ultimate  redistribu- 
tion of  matter  in  the  universe.  He  was  so  clever  I 
Clever  in  a  way  that  Jacques  and  Jocelin  could 
never  be.  He  had  a  background  of  general  in- 
formation and  general  scholarship  to  draw  from, 
and  they  had  not. 

"  What  good  does  it  do  you  ?  "  inquired  Jacques 
curiously. 

"What?"  asked  Baird. 

"  Why,  all  these  tail-ends  of  wisdom  you  cram 
into  that  noddle  of  yours? "' 

Baird  laughed.  "We  can't  all  be  specialists, 
you  know,"  he  answered.  "It  does  me  good;  it 
entertains  me.  I  'm  made  so  that  I  need  a  lot  of 
entertaining  to  make  existence  worth  while." 


266  DIANA    VICTEIX 

"Aren't  you  fond  of  any  one  thing  more  than 
another,  Mr.  Baird?"  asked  Enid.  "Are  they 
all  equally  pleasant  to  you?" 

"N-n-o!"  he  said  slowly;  "  I  can't  say  that 
they  are." 

"So  he  has  a  preference,  a  specialty,  after 
all!"  cried  Jacques.  "Out  with  it!  What  is 
it  you  're  fondest  of?  Not  cotton  brokerage,  I 
know." 

"I  beg  to  be  excused,"  smiled  Baird.  "Not 
that  I  mind  unfolding  my  soul  to  such  a  sympa- 
thetic audience.  But  my  wife  is  present.  She 
might  feel  embarrassed  at  having  her  name 
brought  into  the  conversation,  you  know." 

It  was  a  pretty  compliment;  Roma  liked  it. 
She  sat  in  the  shadow  behind  Enid  and  Sylvia. 
The  three  women  had  drawn  together  and  the  men 
were  facing  them.  Roma  felt  herself  blushing 
in  the  shadow,  and  realized  that  to  her  it  was  odd 
to  blush  at  compliments  from  her  own  husband. 

"Talking  about  specialties,"  said  Jacques, 
"I  've  decided  to  go  home  to-morrow." 

"Better  start  now,  then,"  said  Baird;  "train 
leaves  at  quarter  after  eight  in  the  morning.  If 
you  go  now,"  he  looked  at  his  watch,  "you  can 
take  it  leisurely  through  the  woods.  Rather 
dark,  but  if  you  must!  " 

"I  take  the  afternoon  train,"  laughed  Jacques. 
"No  joking.  I  've  got  to." 

"Rather  sudden,  is  n't  it?  " 


DURING   THE   WEE  SMA>  HOURS         267 

"Yes,"  Jacques  acknowledged.  "But  I've 
been  thinking  it  over,  and  it  is  best  all  round." 

"I  will  go  with  you,"  said  Jocelin. 

"  Hullo !  "  ejaculated  Baird.  "  You  ' ve  no  press- 
ing engagements,  young  man?" 

"No,  but  it  may  be  as  well  for  me  to  be  on  the 
scene  of  action  early." 

"Noble  sentiment!  "     This  from  Baird. 

"I  suppose  I  can  depend  on  you  for  the  first?  " 
Jacques  continued  to  his  partner. 

"  First  of  what  ?  —  January  ?  " 

"No,  October."  Jacques  said  this  in  his  busi- 
ness tone. 

"Suppose  we  say  the  fifteenth?"  suggested 
Baird  with  teasing  blandness. 

"The  fifteenth,  then,  of  October." 

"And  if  it  comes  on  a  Sunday?"  murmured 
the  incorrigible  Baird. 

"The  fifteenth  of  October,"  repeated  Jacques. 

"Wouldn't  Mr.  Baird  be  just  as  useful  if  he 
attended  to  the  business  in  New  York?  "  inquired 
Roma,  speaking  from  the  shadow. 

"  No,  madame, "  said  Jacques.  "  Candor  obliges 
me  to  confess  that  he  would  not." 

"October  is  so  early,  Mr.  Dumarais!  People 
always  lose  the  effect  of  their  summer  if  they  go 
home  as  early  as  that.  And  Curtis  is  not  accli- 
mated." 

Curtis  smiled. 

"I  wouldn't  be  anxious  about  him,"  observed 


268  DIANA   VICTEIX 

Jacques;  "he's  tougher  than  you  think.  It 
won't  do  him  a  bit  of  harm  to  come  home  then. 
If  he  has  tried  to  make  you  believe  he  's  delicate, 
Mrs.  Baird,  don't  you  believe  him;  he  's  only 
putting  on,  and  trying  to  get  you  to  plead  for 
him,  so  he  can  stay  up  here  and  see  the  leaves 
turn  red.  He  's  seen  them  do  it  for  some  thirty 
odd  years.  Just  don't  you  encourage  him  in  his 
idle  ways,  Mrs.  Baird." 

It  is  always  nettling  to  be  instructed  by  an 
outsider  in  the  manners  and  foibles  of  one's  par- 
ents, or  children,  or  —  husband  (even  when  one 
has  been  married  to  that  husband  but  two  months, 
and  has  never  acknowledged  to  any  particularly 
deep  affection  for  him). 

"It  is  I  who  do  not  want  to  go  home,"  said 
Roma.  "Mr.  Baird  says  he  must,  because  it  is 
not  fair  to  leave  you  down  there." 

"And  you  would  save  him  from  rushing  into 
the  jaws  of  death  and  dengue  fever.  Ah,  yes, 
madame!  I  understand.  Baird,  you  're  a  lucky 
fellow." 

"I  am  afraid  it  is  simply  because  I  do  not 
want  to  go,"  persisted  Roma. 

"And  he  is  such  a  brute,  he  says  if  he  goes, 
you  must!  "  added  Jacques.  "Baird,  I  wouldn't 
have  believed  it  of  you." 

"He  's  not  a  brute  at  all!  "  said  Roma,  impa- 
tiently, and  they  all  laughed,  —  except  her  hus- 
band, who  smiled  in  his  own  inscrutable  fashion. 


DURING   THE   WEE  SMA'  HOURS         269 

"I  hasten  to  withdraw  all  explanations  and 
assertions.  I  am  not  in  this  thing.  I  will  retire 
gracefully  while  there  is  yet  time,"  said  Jacques. 
"Let  us  look  at  the  moon." 

It  was  almost  covered  by  this  time,  and  they 
watched  in  silence  until  the  shadow  had  crept 
over  the  last  bright  bit  of  the  edge,  and  the  little 
planet  hung  above  them  like  a  dull,  brown- 
skinned  orange.  The  shadow  had  brought  out 
the  solidity  of  the  moon  in  a  curious  manner.  It 
was  no  longer  a  flat  disk;  it  was  a  globe,  small, 
and  rounded  out  in  the  heavens.  The  blue-black 
sky  was  alive  with  stars,  depths  upon  depths  of 
stars.  This  was  the  month  for  meteors,  and  now 
and  again  a  falling  star  would  trail  across  the 
twinkling  darkness,  appearing  out  of  space  and 
vanishing  into  it  again. 

"Who  made  a  wish  that  last  time?"  asked 
Roma. 

"I  did,"  said  Jacques,  and  he  looked  at  Enid. 

"There  goes  another!  "  cried  Roma,  "but  that 
was  too  quick.  I  wonder  what  we  all  wished. 
Would  n't  it  be  entertaining  to  know?  " 

"I  am  perfectly  willing  to  tell  mine,"  said 
Enid. 

"It  would  destroy  the  charm  if  we  told,"  in- 
terrupted Sylvia  hastily. 

"I  '11  bet  I  can  guess  what  Mrs.  Baird  wished," 
said  Jacques. 

"What?"  demanded  Roma. 


270  DIANA    VICTEIX 

'"That  you  wouldn't  have  to  go  home  in  Octo- 
ber." 

"I  didn't  wish  that  at  all." 

"Then  there  is  something  you  wish  for  more 
than  staying  away  from  New  Orleans?"  said 
Baird. 

"Yes." 

"Are  you  going  to  tell  him,  Mrs.  Baird?" 
teased  Jacques.  "Wives  always  tell  their  hus- 
bands everything,  don't  they?" 

"That  depends  upon  the  husbands,"  Roma 
answered. 

"Bravo!"  cried  Jacques;  "there  speaks  the 
modern  woman." 

"That  isn't  modern,"  declared  Enid.  "It 
was  just  as  much  a  fact  before  the  flood  as  it  is 
now." 

"I  don't  believe  it  was  acknowledged  so 
boldly,"  Jacques  insisted. 

"Perhaps  not." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say  you 're  trying  to  re- 
duce the  modern  woman  to  a  definition,  Jacques?  " 
Baird  asked  the  question. 

"With  three  to  study,  one  might  hope  to  get 
at  a  little  of  the  truth."  As  Jacques  said  this, 
he  faced  about  and  stared  at  the  three  women 
with  uncompromising  directness. 

"We  might  make  a  new  game,"  suggested 
Baird,  "and  call  it  '  The  Modern  Woman,  a 
Characteristic  Game.'  " 


DURING   THE    WEE  SMA.'   HOURS         271 

"Capital!"  cried  Jacques.  "We  might  in- 
vent the  characteristics  now.  Each  man  write 
three,  mix  them  up,  and  guess  who  wrote  them." 

"We  shall  do  the  guessing,"  said  Roma.  "If 
you  make  game  of  us,  we  shall  claim  equal  rights 
and  make  game  of  you." 

"There's  one  of  her  characteristics  to  start 
on !  "  said  Jacques. 

The  moon  was  beginning  to  come  out  of  the 
shadow.  There  was  a  scribbling  of  lead-pencils 
upon  the  backs  of  envelopes,  while  the  three 
women,  huddled  together,  conversed  in  whispers. 

"It  is  strange!"  said  Roma;  "one  is  so  far 
away  from  people!  It  makes  the  trees  and  the 
rocks  seem  full  of  life,  as  if  they  were  human 
beings.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  on  another  planet 
when  I  look  down  upon  that  wide  valley  full  of 
mist." 

Sylvia  murmured  something  from  Shelley, 
about  tall  peaks  islanded  with  mist. 

"Let  us  slip  away  soon;  I  want  to  tell  you 
something,"  whispered  Enid. 

"Not  now,"  Sylvia  answered. 

The  pencils  ceased,  and  Jacques  struck  a  match 
in  order  to  see  if  what  he  had  written  was  legi- 
ble. Baird  then  shuffled  the  papers,  and,  by  the 
aid  of  several  matches,  read  them  aloud. 

"She  is  determined  upon  having  her  own  way." 

"Mr.  Dumarais  wrote  that  one,"  said  Enid 
promptly. 


272  DIAXA 

"Ami  why  do  you  think  so?"  demanded 
Jacques. 

"  Because  you  are  so  bent  on  having  your  own 
way  yourself." 

"Rule  that  one  out!"  Roma  cried.  "It  is  a 
masculine  characteristic." 

"Let 's  compromise  and  call  it  a  common  attri- 
bute," suggested  Baird. 

"I  call  it  a  victory  for  our  side,"  declared 
Enid. 

Jacques  groaned. 

"She  possesses  that  generosity  of  mind  which 
has  hitherto  been  accorded  to  men  alone.  She  is 
equally  large-minded  and  fair  when  she  is  in  the 
right  as  when  she  is  in  the  wrong." 

Roma  started. 

"Well?"  said  her  husband. 

"Nothing." 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  were  going  to  guess." 

"  Nobody  ready  ?"  asked  Jacques. 

"I  'm  not  certain,"  said  Enid;  and  Sylvia 
added,  "Nor  I,  but  it  argues  a  generous  mind  on 
the  part  of  the  writer." 

"We  might  save  that  one,  and  come  back  to 
it.  Here's  another:  'It  is  not  of  herself  that 
she  thinks;  she  strives  that  others  may  be 
saved.'" 

"Is  that  Mr.  Castaigne?"  inquired  Sylvia 
gently. 

"Right!     Jocelin,  if   that  characteristic  is   a 


DURING    THE   WEE  SMA'  HOURS         273 

reflection  of  your  own  mind,  Miss  Sylvia  has 
paid  you  a  very  pretty  compliment.  You  'd  bet- 
ter get  up  and  make  a  bow." 

"I  do,"  said  Jocelin,  and  as  he  stood  up  he 
looked  off  towards  the  north. 

"Tell  me,  is  it  the  beginning  of  the  dawn  I 
see?  —  that  whiteness  ?  " 

"Perhaps.  It  does  begin  pretty  far  round 
sometimes,  but  it 's  rather  early  now.  Let  me 
see ! '' 

Curtis  Baird  stood  up  beside  Joceliu  and  looked 
for  some  seconds  in  silence  towards  the  place 
Jocelin  indicated.  Then  he  said,  in  a  quiet 
voice :  — 

"It  is  the  Northern  Lights." 

The  others  scrambled  hastily  to  their  feet. 

The  faint  whiteness  in  the  north  was  growing 
definite ;  it  gleamed,  it  moved.  Gradually  an  arc 
of  light  came  out  against  the  sky,  and  along  the 
arc,  from  left  to  right,  the  pale -green  luminous 
shadows  began  to  dance.  Up  and  up  they 
mounted,  now  great  sweeps  of  light,  now  pointed, 
knife-like  shafts,  now  fading  fan-rays.  There 
was  no  color  save  the  pale  green  that  was  almost 
white.  There  was  no  sound,  save  once  or  twice 
a  faint  crackle  in  the  air.  The  procession  of 
shining  ghosts  grew  taller  and  taller  as  it  moved 
along  the  arc.  After  a  while  the  pageant  faded, 
as  a  rainbow  fades,  mistily,  slowly,  imperceptibly. 
Those  who  had  watched  it  spoke  in  hushed  voices, 


274  DIANA   V1CTBIX 

and  went  down  softly  to  the  camp.     The  eclipse 
was  almost  over. 

"We  shall  have  a  couple  of  hours  for  sleep 
before  the  dawn  begins,"  said  Curtis  Baird;  "I 
should  advise  you  to  embrace  the  opportunity  if 
you  can." 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE   DAWN 

SYLVIA  lay  very  still  under  the  lean-to,  but 
she  was  not  asleep.  She  knew  that  Enid,  beside 
her,  was  awake,  and  she  had  caught  a  blink  of 
Roma's  eyelids  from  the  farther  corner  of  the 
little  shed.  Enid  had  tried  to  draw  Sylvia  away 
to  a  quiet  place  where  they  could  be  alone  to- 
gether and  talk,  but  Sylvia  was  white  and  quiet 
and  unresponsive,  and  Enid's  habit  of  consider- 
ing her  friend's  welfare  made  her  suppress  her 
own  longing  for  sympathy,  and  lie  down  in  pa- 
tient silence  upon  the  sweet  pine  branches. 

Sylvia  could  look  out  and  see  Jacques  and 
Curtis  Baird  and  Jocelin  lying  about  the  camp 
in  picturesque  and  unconventional  attitudes,  — 
Jacques,  under  the  other  lean-to,  changing  his 
position  restlessly  every  few  minutes,  but  always 
keeping  his  back  turned  resolutely  to  the  fire; 
Curtis  Baird,  stretched  full  length  on  the  ground 
and  propped  on  one  elbow,  his  chin  in  his  hand, 
staring  into  the  flames  —  once  or  twice  he  got 
up  softly  and  put  a  log  on  the  fire ;  Jocelin,  half 
sitting,  half  lying,  against  a  blanketed  rock  — 
asleep.  Yes,  Jocelin  was  asleep. 


276  DIANA    VICTEIX 

After  a  long  while  Sylvia  crept  slowly  and 
softly  away  from  Enid's  side,  and  stood  up  in 
the  open  space  by  the  fire.  Enid  watched  her 
go,  and  moved  slightly,  but  Sylvia  did  not  turn. 
And  Enid  did  not  follow  her. 

"You  will  hear  the  birds  better  if  you  go  over 
on  the  wilderness  side,"  whispered  Curtis  Baird. 

But  Sylvia  shook  her  head.  As  she  tiptoed 
past  Jocelin  he  opened  his  eyes  and  smiled,  and 
fell  asleep  again.  And  she  went  on  down  to  the 
ledge  where  he  and  she  had  sat  in  the  moonlight. 
The  place  was  full  of  her  words  and  his  sobs. 

The  color  was  beginning  to  creep  back  into  the 
trees.  The  river  and  all  the  valley  lay  hidden 
asleep  beneath  the  mist.  The  moon,  of  palest 
silver,  fading  white,  looked  across  to  the  east 
where  the  sky  flushed  faintly  pink.  It  was  a 
weary  moon.  The  leaves  on  the  young  poplar- 
trees  beneath  the  ledge  were  absolutely  still.  Now 
and  again  the  flute-notes  of  a  thrush  came  out  of 
the  silence  and  melted  back  to  it.  The  dawn 
languor  pressed  at  the  heart  of  life,  and  the 
pulse-beats  of  the  world  were  weak  and  slow,, 

Sylvia  stared  down  at  the  wide  mist-river. 

"Is  it  that  I  do  not  love  him  any  more?"  she 
asked  herself  wearily.  "  No,  —  oh,  no !  I  want 
to  love  him.  Jocelin !  " 

She  lay  down  on  the  rock  and  looked  sidewise 
over  the  valley.  The  mist  was  turning  rosy.  She 
watched  it  idly.  Her  exhaustion  was  too  great 


THE  DAWN  277 

for  tears.  No,  let  Jocelin  cry  like  a  sick  woman 
if  he  chose ! 

"O  voice !  I  wish  that  you  and  I  were  dead !  " 
she  whispered.  Her  mouth  trembled  dejectedly. 

"There  will  never  be  any  one  like  that  again. 
'I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  unto  the  hills  from 
whence  cometh  my  help.' ' 

She  looked  across  to  the  great  mountains  com- 
ing back,  pale  icy  blue  in  the  dawn-light,  and 
for  a  long  time  she  was  so  still  she  seemed  to  lie 
asleep,  —  all  but  her  eyes,  which  were  fixed  wide 
open  quietly. 

Her  spirit  had  been  shaken  to  its  depths  that 
night  by  the  violence  of  unusual  emotions  and 
the  swiftness  of  their  transitions.  A  great  temp- 
tation, a  great  exaltation,  and  a  great  disgust! 
Despite  her  inherited  moral  asceticism,  her  pam- 
pered, self-conscious  apathy,  her  hysteria,  secretly 
indulged  but  unmistakable,  these  experiences 
were  possible  to  Sylvia.  What  was  it  she  had 
felt  when  she  saw  him  lying  there  shaken  with 
sobs?  Disgust?  Was  it?  Why  not  sympathy? 
Who  should  have  understood  his  weakness  if  not 
she? 

When  he  gave  the  promise,  impelled  by  her 
insistent  silence,  and  when  he  sang,  kneeling  on 
the  rock  with  the  shadow  of  despair  still  in  his 
eyes,  her  love  began  to  come  back  faintly;  and  in 
after  years  that  love,  fed  by  her  pity,  transfigured 
by  her  gratitude,  became  a  religion  with  her. 


278  DIANA    VICTRIX 

But  it  is  to  be  doubted  whether,  all  her  life  long, 
she  ever  forgave  Jocelin  those  tears.  She  had 
shunned  the  memory  of  them  persistently  through- 
out the  night,  and  now,  at  the  beginning  of  the 
new  day,  she  was  deliberately  thrusting  them 
from  her  mind,  in  order  to  think  the  best  of  him. 
Sylvia  was  very  proud.  Perhaps  she  did  not 
care  to  remember  that  the  man  whom  she  had 
loved,  and  whom  she  still  wanted  to  love,  was  so 
degenerate. 

He  had  promised!  And  he  had  prayed  for 
help! 

She  watched  the  mist,  and  let  that  thought  sink 
into  her  soul,  strengthening  her.  She  had  fret-* 
ted  in  self -distrust ;  she  had  wasted  her  life  in 
wailing  over  her  own  uselessness,  and,  behold! 
God  had  given  her  a  great  gift.  It  seemed  she 
was  to  save  a  human  soul.  Through  her  will 
Jocelin  had  made  this  promise.  What  did  it 
matter  if  she  had  not  human  happiness,  so  Joce- 
lin had  life,  and  through  her?  It  was  enough 
to  be  delivered  from  herself  and  to  deliver  him. 
And  while  she  waited  the  long,  long  years,  ah! 
idleness  would  be  unbearable!  She  must  work 
now.  Working  meant  writing  to  Sylvia.  Writ- 
ing what?  .  .  . 

That  was  the  way  the  inspiration  came  to  her, 
born  with  the  beginning  of  the  new  day.  Very 
still  she  lay,  wide-eyed,  but  the  pink  color  of  the 
dawn  fluttered  in  her  cheeks. 


THE  DAWN  279 

Sylvia's  great-grandfather  wrote  a  play  once, 
—  to  his  undoing,  —  and  her  grandfather  prayed 
prayers  that  were  poems.  Doubtless  all  this  had 
something  to  do  with  the  book  that  Sylvia  wrote. 
All  Jocelin's  little  foibles  went  into  the  book, 
his  weaknesses,  his  sins.  The  good  and  the  evil 
of  him  were  set  down  with  a  curious  dispassion- 
ateness, considering  that  it  was  Sylvia  who  wrote 
the  book.  It  may  be  that,  after  all,  her  love  for 
him  had  been  mainly  a  matter  of  imagination. 
Imagination  was  always  the  strongest  quality  Syl- 
via possessed.  Or  it  may  be  that,  unconsciously, 
she  did  not  forgive. 

What  help  did  the  hills  bring,  Sylvia?  What 
did  the  mountains  say  to  you,  that  you  should 
smile  as  you  looked  out  over  the  valley?  Was  it 
the  glow  of  the  mist  reflected  in  your  eyes,  that 
kindled  them? 

The  mist?  What  was  the  matter  with  the 
mist?  Something  was  happening  to  it.  It  was 
coming  up  swiftly,  in  a  mass,  all  pink.  Flying 
up !  There  was  no  escaping  it. 

Sylvia  clung  to  the  moss,  awe-stricken,  and 
the  pink  cloud  came  up  from  the  valley  and  shut 
out  all  the  world,  and  made  a  rosy  light  every- 
where, and  no  other  thing. 

She  heard  Enid's  voice  calling  her  from  a  dis- 
tance: "Sylvia!  Sylvia!" 

But  she  did  not  answer.  She  sat  still  in  the 
midst  of  the  cloud,  and  she  thought:  — 


280  DIANA    V1CTR1X 

"Is  it  outside  of  me,  or  is  it  in  my  soul,  this 
rosy  light?" 

But  presently  she  became  aware  of  voices. 
Some  one  quite  near  her  gasped  and  said :  — 

"Curtis!" 

There  were  hasty  footsteps,  and  Curtis  Baird 
said :  — 

"Ah !  here  you  are !  " 

The  first  voice  gasped  again,  and  Baird  mur- 
mured :  — 

"Why!  why!"  in  a  pleased  tone.  "Fright- 
ened?" 

"What  is  it,  Curtis?" 

"The  mist  has  come  up  suddenly,  because  of 
some  shifting  of  the  air-currents,  and  a  sudden 
change  in  the  temperature.  It  is  unusual,  but 
there's  nothing  to  be  alarmed  about  in  it.  It 's 
perfectly  explainable  according  to  the  laws  of 
physics." 

There  was  a  short  pause,  and  he  continued :  — 

"Look  up,  dear!     It  is  a  lovely  light." 

"How  did  you  know  where  I  was?  " 

"Oh,  I  had  my  eye  on  you  when  you  left  the 
camp.  Did  n't  you  call  me  ?  " 

"  Yes !     I  —  I  was  startled. " 

"Don't  move,  if  you  're  comfortable." 

"I  —  I "          Such  a  tearful,  muffled  voice ! 

"There,  there,  dear!  It  has  been  too  much 
for  you.  I  ought  not  to  have  sprung  an  all-night 
affair  like  this  on  you  so  soon,  when  you  aren't 


THE  DAWN  281 

used  to  the  woods  and  the  outdoor  life.  It  has 
been  too  exciting.  Don't  cry !  The  dawn  's  al- 
ways a  nasty  time,  anyway.  Everything  's  below 
par  then,  you  know.  Don't  cry!  We'll  have 
some  hot  coffee  when  this  mist  blows  off,  and 
you  '11  feel  better." 

"It  isn't  that,"  said  the  muffled  voice;  "it 
is  n't  that  at  all !  I  'm  going  South  with  you." 

"No,  no!"  he  answered.  "That  's  all  right! 
I  've  thought  about  it.  You  needn't,  you  know. 
You  can  stay  here,  and  give  your  two  sisters  a 
winter  in  New  York,  and  I  '11  run  up,  say  once  a 
month,  for  a  few  days.  How  's  that?  It 's  only 
fair,  since  I  got  you  into  the  scrape,  that  I  should 
suf  —  that  I  should  do  what  I  can  to  make  life  en- 
durable to  you.  Don't  worry  about  going  South. " 

"  I  'm  not.  I ' ve  changed  my  mind.  I  want 
to  go.  I "  — 

Sylvia  heard  only  incoherent  murmurs  and 
protests  after  that.  Jocelin  could  never  have 
kissed  her  as  Curtis  Baird  kissed  his  wife.  The 
thought  stung  her.  Other  women  could  be  happy. 
And  the  look  in  Jocelin's  eyes  when  he  had  asked 
her  to  marry  him  came  back  to  her,  and  brought 
the  sense  of  shame,  of  taint.  She  should  never 
marry  Jocelin,  she  should  never  marry  any  one, 
because  some  one  —  was  it  he  or  she?  —  had  dese- 
crated the  sacrament. 

The  mist  sank  on  a  sudden,  as  swiftly  as  it 
had  risen,  and  began  to  waste  away  in  the  valley. 


282  DIANA   VICTEIX 

Roma  and  her  husband  were  behind  a  neighbor- 
ing rock,  and  as  they  got  up  to  go  back  to  the 
camp,  Roma  said :  — 

"The  fifteenth  of  October  does  come  on  Sun- 
day." 

Some  of  the  far  mountains  had  caught  the  sun- 
light, and  there  was  a  patch  of  brightness  on  the 
poplar-trees,  but  the  beech-wood  and  the  pines 
below  were  still  in  shadow,  and  ragged  patches  of 
mist  frayed  out  among  the  treetops. 

The  exultation  which  accompanies  an  act  of 
creation  had  given  place  to  sickening  weariness. 
Sylvia  came  into  the  camp  looking  white  and 
almost  stern. 

"We  were  about  to  send  out  a  search  party," 
said  Baird.  "Miss  Enid  felt  convinced  that  you 
had  fallen  over  a  precipice." 

She  warmed  her  hands  at  the  embers  of  the 
dying  fire,  over  which  Roma  was  toasting  bread. 
Jocelin  came  to  her,  and  bent  down  to  warm  his 
hands,  also. 

"  When  I  awoke  in  that  shining  mist,  I  thought 
that  I  was  dead  and  heaven  had  come,  and  I 
waited  for  your  face,"  he  said. 

She  did  not  answer  him,  she  did  not  look  up, 
but  she  put  her  hand  inadvertently  into  a  little 
flame  that  woke  up  out  of  the  embers. 

Jacques  was  ruefully  trying  to  straighten  the 
coffee-pot,  upon  which  he  had  unwittingly  tram- 
pled during  the  mist. 


THE  DAWN  283 

Enid  sat  by  the  lean-to,  pretending  to  eat  a 
piece  of  toast.  Sylvia  went  over  to  her,  realizing 
suddenly  that  she  and  Enid  had  said  little  to 
each  other  that  night. 

"I  have  thought  of  a  story,"  she  said  softly, 
"and  I  must  write  it.  We  shall  go  down  and 
work.  I  am  impatient  to  begin.  I  shall  work 
ill  the  rest  of  my  life,  and  never,  never  stop. 
We  shall  be  very  busy,  Enid!  Let  us  go  down. 

think  I  shall  never  leave  anything  unfinished 
again." 

After  all,  was  Joeelin's  soul  to  be  the  only  one 
saved  ? 


CHAPTER   VIII 
JOCELIN  GOES   FORTH  TO  CONQUER 

IN  the  early  morning,  when  all  the  green  things 
in  the  woods  were  still  dew-drenched  and  droop- 
ing sleepily,  the  campers  straggled  down  the 
mountain-side. 

Jocelin  went  first,  singing. 

It  was  a  wonderful  thing  to  hear  Jocelin 's 
sweet  voice,  so  clear  and  joyous,  in  the  midst  of 
the  newly  wakened  woods.  Jocelin  sang  only 
glad  songs  that  morning.  So  lightly  he  trod  the 
mountain  path,  he  seemed  not  to  feel  the  earth 
under  his  feet.  He  held  his  head  triumphantly, 
singing  straight  before  him  with  rapt  gaze,  and 
the  melancholy  cry  in  his  voice  was  as  the  beatific 
sadness  of  a  purified  and  pardoned  spirit.  He 
sang  the  happy  little  songs  Jeanne  used  to  make 
and  sing,  —  the  love-songs,  the  tender  lullabies, 
the  bits  of  prayer.  He  spoke  to  no  one,  and  he 
did  not  look  behind. 

"It  is  like  having  little  Jeanne  with  us  again," 
said  Roma. 

Curtis  Baird  and  Roma  came  after  Jocelin, 
walking  together  and  saying  little,  —  if  words 
count  for  much. 


JOCELIN  GOES  FORTH  TO  CONQUER   285 

Enid  and  Sylvia  followed,  hand  in  hand,  and 
for  a  while  they,  too,  were  silent.  Enid  was 
thinking  of  the  winter  that  was  coming,  and  the 
work  that  was  to  be  her  life.  Sylvia  was  listen- 
ing to  Jocelin,  and  giving  thanks  to  God  for  His 
blessings.  Over  and  over  she  said  to  herself:  — 

"Jocelin  has  promised!  It  is  I  who  have  been 
allowed  to  save  him." 

And  the  joy  in  her  heart  was  strength.  Sylvia, 
also,  was  beginning  to  live. 

Jacques  came  at  the  end  of  the  little  proces- 
sion, switching  the  drops  off  the  wet  bushes  that 
leaned  into  the  path.  Sometimes,  when  he  looked 
at  Enid,  his  keen  eyes  softened;  but  sometimes, 
too,  his  chin  grew  more  square,  his  mouth  more 
firm,  the  pose  of  his  head  more  military  and  ob- 
stinate. 

"I  believe  that  fellow  is  going  to  amount  to 
something,  after  all,"  said  Curtis  Baird,  nodding 
towards  Jocelin.  "What  a  blessing  it  is  for  me 
that  I  was  born  with  money!  Think  what  I 
might  have  come  to  !" 

"You  would  not  have  been  like  him,"  asserted 
his  wife. 

Baird  smiled  as  if  her  remark  pleased  him,  but 
persisted  teasingly :  — 

"No-o!  I  haven't  his  heavenly  voice,  you 
know." 

Jocelin  began  to  sing  the  little  song  of  spring, 
only  one  line,  then  he  broke  off  short  and  was 


286  DIANA    VICTRIX 

silent  a  while.  Truly  Jeanne  walked  with  them 
down  the  mountain -side  that  morning. 

When  Jocelin  began  again,  he  chose  the  "Mar- 
seillaise." Jacques  involuntarily  followed  suit, 
and  stopped  abruptly  after  the  first  three  bars. 
Curtis  Baird  hummed  the  air  absent-mindedly 
for  a  moment,  but  his  voice  soon  died  away,  and 
he  trudged  along  at  his  wife's  side,  his  chin  sunk 
upon  his  chest,  his  eyes  fixed  thoughtfully  on  the 
ground.  Enid  came  back  from  her  dreams  of 
social  reform  to  the  memory  of  Mardi  Gras  night. 
They  all  walked  on  abstractedly,  seeing  visions :  — 

A  long  table  and  a  blazing  bowl  in  the  centre, 
and  behind  the  colored  flames  a  face  with  parted 
lips,  singing. 

Whose  was  that  vision  ? 

"I  have  made  love  to  your  —  women,  and  they 
have  found  me  —  not  altogether  —  unpleasing. 
I  —  speak  for  one  of  them." 

Who  remembered  that?  Was  it  a  pleasant 
memory  ? 

They  sang  the  song  loudly,  merrily,  around 
the  table. 

"Your  friend  is  sensitive,  — Jocelin  is  lovable, 
—  pardon  me!  " 

Those  were  biting  memories. 

Jocelin  sang  on  alone  to  the  end.  When  he 
stopped,  his  companions  awoke  once  more  to  the 
wet,  green  woods,  and  the  beech-trees  with  the 
sunshine  up  in  the  tops  of  them,  and  morning 
twilight  underneath. 


JOCELIN   GOES  FORTH  TO  CONQUER      287 

When  they  rested  by  the  brook,  they  talked  to- 
gether of  the  coming  winter  and  their  work.  It 
was  an  inspiration  to  hear  Jocelin  tell  of  his 
plans,  —  the  very  tone  of  his  voice  bespoke  con- 
secration. He  had  never  before  been  so  humble- 
minded,  —  so  full  of  hope  and  energy.  Even 
Jacques,  in  whom  long  experience  of  the  enthusi- 
asms of  his  step-brother  had  engendered  skepti- 
cism, unbent  and  grew  almost  sympathetic.  He 
thought  perhaps  Jocelin  really  did  feel  more  re- 
sponsibility about  succeeding,  for  his  mother's 
sake,  now  that  he  was  all  she  had  left.  And 
without  doubt  this  mountain  air  had  done  him 
good,  for  his  voice  was  stronger  than  it  had  been 
in  years. 

Sylvia  was  the  only  one  who  did  not  talk  of 
what  she  meant  to  do;  and  the  others,  except 
Enid,  did  not  notice  then,  because  they  had  never 
thought  of  Sylvia  in  connection  with  anything 
active.  She  was  only  rich  and  delicate.  But 
they  remembered  it  afterwards,  when  Sylvia's 
book  came  out.  They  remembered,  too,  how 
much  Jocelin  had  talked. 

When  they  came  out  of  the  woods  into  the  long 
pasture  behind  the  lodge,  the  valley  had  caught 
the  sunlight,  and  the  great  mountains  smiled 
upon  Jocelin. 

Was  it  to  be  success  with  him?  Was  there 
some  one  who  should  save  him  from  himself,  after 
all? 

Bravo,  Jocelin! 


BOOK   IV 

"MAN,  OH,  NOT  MEN!" 

"  Man,  oh,  not  men !     A  chain  of  linked  thought, 
Of  love  and  might  to  be  divided  not." 

PERCY  BTSSHE  SHELLEY. 


CHAPTER   I 

MONSIEUR   ADVISES 

MONSIEUR  DUMARAIS  sat  in  his  little  book- 
room  with  a  tiny  volume  of  Daudet  in  his  hand. 
The  old  house  was  very  quiet,  but  monsieur  had 
grown  used  to  that  since  Jeanne  had  died  and 
Jocelin  had  gone  away.  The  piano  was  never 
touched  now,  and  no  busy,  hurrying  little  feet 
ran  up  and  down  the  galleries.  Madame's  slow, 
weighty  tread  and  the  occasional  slipshod  patter 
of  a  servant  were  the  only  sounds  of  motion 
through  the  house  all  day,  until  Jacques'  brisk, 
firm  step  was  heard  upon  the  stairs  at  six  o'clock. 
Monsieur  began  to  watch  for  that  step  in  the 
middle  of  the  afternoon.  There  was  always  a 
possibility  that  Jacques  might  come  home  before 
six,  you  know. 

He  was  watching  now,  in  the  dark,  silent 
house.  Madame  had  gone  to  the  French  Opera 
matinee.  Jacques  tormented  her  into  going  occa- 
sionally; he  told  her  it  cheered  her  up.  She 
sometimes  came  home  and  shed  tears,  because  the 
singing  made  her  think  of  Jocelin ;  but  Jacques 
found  that  most  things  made  her  think  of  Joce- 


292  DIANA    VICTEIX 

lin,  and  concluded  that  it  was  better  for  her  to 
be  reminded  of  Jocelin's  singing  than  of  his  other 
characteristics. 

The  early  December  darkness  was  already 
gathering  in  the  corners  of  the  little  room.  The 
day  was  bleak,  and  madame  had  had  a  fire  made 
in  the  grate  before  she  went  out,  but  it  had  died 
down  to  embers,  and  the  maid  had  forgotten  to 
attend  to  it. 

That  was  Jacques'  step,  after  all!  And  it 
could  not  be  more  than  half  past  four.  Monsieur 
found  himself  astonished  against  his  will.  Some- 
thing must  have  happened. 

"Where  is  that  Aurelia- Josephine-Stephanie- 
Maria?  Why  doesn't  she  keep  this  fire  going?" 
said  Jacques.  "  Where  is  maman  ?" 

"This  last  one  is  Stephanie,"  replied  monsieur. 
"  I  heard  her  talking  to  the  milkman  in  the  alley 
not  long  ago.  Your  maman  has  gone  to  the 
matinee." 

"Of  course!     I  forgot!" 

Jacques  put  some  coal  on  the  fire,  sat  down, 
and  drummed  his  hands  on  his  knees. 

"You  are  at  home  early,  my  son." 

"John  Harris  came  into  the  office  to-day," 
Jacques  began,  with  his  usual  lack  of  preamble. 
"He  has  just  come  from  New  York.  He  met 
Jocelin  on  the  street  there." 

"Ah?" 

Monsieur  had  felt  convinced  that   something 


MONSIEUR  ADVISES  293 

disagreeable  was  to  happen  when  he  heard  Jacques 
on  the  stairs. 

"  Jocelin  borrowed  a  quarter  from  him." 
The  silence  which  followed  this  statement  con- 
demned Jocelin  more  severely  than  words  could 
have  done. 

"He  did  not  tell  me  that  at  first.  He  asked 
me  if  I  knew  how  wretchedly  Jocelin  was  look- 
ing, and  I  said  no,  he  had  not  sent  us  his  photo- 
graph lately.  He  told  me  Jocelin  asked  about 
New  Orleans,  and  wept  when  he  spoke  of  his 
mother.  Harris  is  a  good  sort.  He  said,  '  I 
know  geniuses  are  a  trial  to  the  flesh  of  us  ordi- 
nary mortals  in  most  cases,  and  I  guess  your 
step-brother  is  no  exception  to  the  general  rule ; 
but  I  thought  that  —  well  —  for  his  mother's 
sake  you  might  like  to  know  how  matters  stood 
with  him.  I  gathered  from  his  remarks  that  he 
had  not  kept  you  thoroughly  informed.'  And 
then  he  eyed  me  for  a  second  and  blurted  out, 
'  Tell  you  what,  Dumarais,  that  fellow  's  in  an  aw- 
ful bad  way.  Looks  as  if  he  'd  die  any  minute. ' ' 
After  a  pause  Jacques  continued :  — 
"I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  hunt  him  up  and 
bring  him  home." 

"Did   this   young   man   know   his    address?" 
asked  Monsieur  Dumarais. 

"No.     Maman  sends  to  the  general  post-office." 

"If  I  had  known  what  I  was  bringing  upon 

you,  I  should  never  have  married,"  said  monsieur. 


294  DIANA    VICTRIX 

"Ah,  bah!"  said  Jacques. 

"When  your  mother  hears  this,  it  will  make 
her  ill." 

"There  is  no  need  that  she  should  hear  it.  I 
shall  say  I  am  going  North,  and  while  there  I 
shall  look  up  Jocelin.  When  I  am  there,  I  can 
write  that  he  is  coming  home  with  me  for  a  vaca- 
tion." 

"Oh,  my  son,  you  are  a  very  good  son  to  me 
and  to  her." 

"Why  not?  "  said  Jacques. 

"You  will  have  some  difficulty  in  finding  him." 

"  Perhaps.     I  shall  go  to  his  last  address,  — 
that  was  eight  months  ago,  is  it  not?     Harris 
saw  him  in  some  little  street  off  the  Bowery.     I 
can  always  apply  to  the  police.     Perhaps  he  will 
be  dead  in  the  mean  while." 

There  was  a  hopeful  inflection  in  Jacques' 
voice  as  he  suggested  this  possibility,  but  he  was 
not  hard-hearted,  he  was  only  extremely  upright. 
After  a  moment  he  added :  — 

"A  quarter  !  If  it  had  been  twenty -five  dol- 
lars, I  should  not  have  cared." 

He  crossed  the  little  room,  took  down  a  book, 
put  it  up  again,  walked  back  to  the  fire,  and 
stood  by  the  mantel-piece,  shoving  the  toe  of  his 
boot  between  the  bars  of  the  grate. 

"There  was  no  more  bad  news?  " 

"No.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  Providence  will 
consider  that  sufficient  for  one  twenty-four  hours." 


MONSIEUR  ADVISES  295 

"You  leave  soon?  " 

"I  think  so.  In  a  day  or  two.  I  must  see 
maman  about  my  trunk." 

"Your  mother  has  gone  to  Madame  Chassard's 
after  the  matinee." 

Jacques  laughed. 

"We  shall  have  more  of  the  charms  of  Made- 
moiselle Felicie  for  dinner  in  that  case.  Truly, 
I  am  a  heavy  responsibility  to  maman.  It  re- 
quires great  agility  to  elude  her  attempts  to  make 
me  a  married  man.  Ha,  ha !  She  is  a  nice  little 
girl,  Mademoiselle  Felicie,  but  maman  will  have 
to  comprehend  that  we  do  not  conduct  our  affairs 
as  they  did  when  she  was  young.  I  refuse  dis- 
tinctly to  be  proposed  for." 

"You  are  right;  she  is  a  nice  little  girl,  that 
Mademoiselle  Felicie,"  observed  Monsieur  Du- 
marais  with  peculiar  quietness.  "She  reminds 
me  of  Jeanne.  Of  course  she  is  not  gifted,  she 
does  not  sing,  but,  on  the  whole,  that  would  be 
too  painful.  In  some  ways  I  believe  she  is  more 
efficient  than  our  Jeanne.  Ah,  that  dear  child ! 
I  do  not  cease  missing  her." 

"Nor  I,"  said  Jacques,  glancing  uneasily  at 
his  father.  "Nor  I." 

The  delinquent  Stephanie  came  down  the  hall, 
glanced  in  at  the  door  with  a  perturbed  counte- 
nance, and,  seeing  the  ruddy  fire  and  also  the 
young  master  of  the  house,  fled  before  a  rebuke 
could  be  administered. 


296  DIANA    V1CTBIX 

"That  girl  is  no  good,"  said  Jacques. 

"I  know,  my  son;  but  your  mother  at  her  age 
begins  to  find  the  housekeeping  more  of  a  bur- 
den. She  can  no  longer  maintain  the  same  rigor 
with  these  creatures  that  she  used  to.  They  take 
advantage.  It  needs  a  younger  woman." 

There  was  another  silence  which  Jacques  tried 
not  to  find  significant. 

"I  think,  while  I  am  in  the  North,  I  will  run 
up  to  Boston,  and  call  on  Miss  Sylvia  and  Miss 
Enid,"  he  remarked  presently  in  a  low  voice. 
"I  told  them  they  might  expect  to  see  me  again 
in  about  a  year." 

Monsieur  arose,  and  came  and  stood  beside  his 
son,  laying  his  hand  upon  the  young  man's  shoul- 
der. For  a  long  time  the  two  remained  thus, 
without  speaking,  but  at  last  Jacques  said  in  the 
same  low  voice :  — 

"Well,  my  father?" 

"  Perhaps  I  should  say  nothing,  my  son ;  it  is 
not  necessary  that  you  should  listen,  however." 

"Oh,  no!  I  shall  be  glad  to  hear,"  Jacques 
answered,  but  his  tone  was  listless. 

"Why  is  it  that  you  set  your  heart  upon  the 
impossible  woman,  Jacques?  She  is  of  the  race 
of  Jeanne  d'Arc,  this  Northern  girl,  in  her  voice, 
her  bearing,  her  beliefs.  That  kind  is  not  to  be 
possessed  by  one  man;  she  belongs  to  a  cause,  to 
the  people.  If  one  insists  upon  falling  in  love 
with  such  women,  one  must  be  content  to  assume 


MONSIEUR   ADVISES  297 

towards  them  the  attitude  of  a  Dante;  they  will 
not  permit  any  other.  Fortunately,  they  are  the 
exceptions." 

"Not  as  much  as  you  think.  There  are  dozens 
of  them  in  the  North.  She  told  me  so  herself. 
They  are  increasing  every  day,"  said  Jacques 
moodily. 

"Perhaps!  perhaps!"  said  monsieur,  sooth- 
ingly. "Of  course  I  do  not  go  out;  I  do  not 
see  the  world.  But  there!"  —  with  a  compre- 
hensive gesture  towards  his  beloved  book-shelves 
—  "there  you  do  not  find  the  Frenchman  telling 
you  that  Jeanne  d'Arc  is  the  general  type.  And 
the  Frenchman  knows  his  world  and  his  women." 

"Ah,  France!  that  is  different,"  said  Jacques. 
"But  France  is  not  the  world.  Of  course  the 
Frenchwomen  are  not  like  that,  with  their  educa- 
tion." 

"Nor  the  New  Orleans  women,"  added  his 
father. 

"Nor  the  New  Orleans  women,"  Jacques  as- 
sented. "But  neither  are  they  all  the  world." 

"But  she  would  be  obliged  to  live  here,  my 
son.  I  tell  you  I  am  right.  It  may  be,  as  you 
say,  that  all  the  women  are  beginning  to  be  ex- 
ceptions to  the  rule ;  I  do  not  know.  But  of  this 
I  am  sure,  that  this  one  woman  could  never  come 
here  and  keep  this  house,  and  mend  your  clothes, 
and  bring  your  children  into  the  world. 

"No!     She  would  die,  or  the  house  would  ex- 


298  DIANA    VICTRIX 

plode.  I  am  more  inclined  to  think  that  it  is 
the  house  which  would  explode.  If  I  speak  with 
force,  it  is  because  I  wish  to  see  you  happy.  I 
say  again,  such  women  are  not  to  be  married. 
Worship  them,  yes!  Adore  them!  And  when 
you  do  marry,  you  will  love  your  wife  the  more 
tenderly,  and  be  a  better  husband  to  her,  because 
you  have  endured  the  discipline  of  a  purely  ideal 
and  spiritual  emotion.  Understand  me,  my  son! 
She  is  adorable,  that  woman.  I  do  not  say  that 
there  are  women  more  worthy  to  be  loved  than 
she,  but  I  say  there  are  women  who  will  make 
better  wives.  And  one  does  not  need  to  go  North 
to  seek  them;  there  are  many  here." 

"Oh,  hordes  of  them!  "  cried  Jacques.  "Ma- 
man  discovers  at  least  two  or  three  new  ones 
every  week,  and  Mrs.  Baird  introduced  me  to  six 
in  one  evening,  when  she  gave  her  bal  poudre." 

"I  repeat,  they  are  to  be  worshiped,  the  great, 
the  universal  women,  but  that  is  a  different  affair 
from  a  wife.  It  is  not  the  same  kind  of  affec- 
tion." 

"I  have  not  said  that  I  should  marry  any- 
body," said  Jacques,  "or  worship  her  either. 
And  here  is  maman.  It  will  be  just  as  well  to 
change  the  subject." 

Madame  entered,  puffing  slightly. 

"You  home,  Jacques?  But  it  is  not  as  late  as 
that,  no?" 

"I  am  going  to  New  York  the  day  after  to- 
morrow," said  Jacques. 


MONSIEUR  ADVISES  299 

"Then  you  will  surely  find  Jocelin?  " 

Madame  sat  down  in  a  chair  and  began  to  cry, 
and  to  talk  English.  She  had  lately  conceived 
the  idea  that  Jacques  was  more  easily  persuaded 
by  English  than  by  French. 

"It  is  now  eight  monsse  an  ee  will  naut  say 
nossing  of  wat  ee  do.  Ma  po'  boy!  It  is  ees 
prride,  Jacques.  You  mus'  insiss  that  ee  accep' 
somesing.  An'  every  night  I  drream  that  ee  is 
daid." 

"I  shall  see  him  and  find  out  how  he  is  suc- 
ceeding. I  may  be  able  to  persuade  him  to  take 
a  vacation  and  come  home  to  visit  us." 

"Ah-h-h!" 

Madame  cast  herself  against  Jacques,  and  be- 
came as  a  fountain  of  tears  upon  his  shoulder. 

"You  will  have  the  small  flat  trunk  brought 
down  from  the  attic,  maman.  It  needs  a  new 
lock.  And  you  will  see  to  the  packing  of  my 
dress  suit.  I  shall  go  to  Boston,  also,  and  I 
expect  to  call  on  Miss  Sylvia  and  Miss  Enid." 

Jacques  moved  towards  the  door  as  he  said 
this. 

"Ah,  that  reminds  me!  "  said  madame  eagerly. 
"I  have  a  message.  Wait,  Jacques.  You  will 
want  to  hear.  I  have  a  message  for  you  from 
Mademoiselle  Felicie.  She  says  "  — 

"Very  well,  later!  At  dinner  it  will  do,"  he 
called  from  the  stairs.  "I  cannot  stop  now." 


CHAPTER   II 
JACQUES'  BROTHER 

JOCELIN  had  made  that  promise  with  perfect 
genuineness  of  desire  and  purity  of  intention. 
The  difficulty  with  him  was  that  he  felt  no  re- 
sponsibility about  keeping  it. 

Sylvia  said :  — 

"He  holds  a  promise  sacred.  He  has  told  me 
so,  and  his  unwillingness  to  give  his  word  lightly 
proves  that.  If  I  can  persuade  him  to  make  me 
a  promise,  he  will  keep  it." 

She  believed  this  to  be  true  of  him,  partly  be- 
cause it  was  true  of  herself,  and  partly  because 
he  was  such  an  admirable  actor. 
1  The  keeping  of  promises  had  been  a  religious 
tradition  in  Sylvia's  family  for  generations. 
When  her  ancestors  broke  faith,  they  either  died 
at  once  or  went  crazy.  But  this  had  not  been 
the  case  with  the  ancestors  of  Jocelin;  for,  in- 
stead of  dying  themselves,  they  usually  fought 
a  duel  over  the  lie,  and  killed  the  other  party, 
y  They  were  excellent  swordsmen. 

New  York  was  not  the  place  for  Jocelin;  it 
contained  too  much  pleasure  to  the  square  inch. 


JACQUES'   BROTHER  301 

His  childlike  temperament  was  too  simple,  too 
impressionable,  to  do  aught  save  clutch  at  every 
fresh  delight  that  came  within  its  reach.  The 
city  was  dull,  as  far  as  music  was  concerned,  in 
August,  September,  and  October,  and  he  might 
have  spent  these  first  three  months  of  his  sojourn 
there  in  writing  out  Jeanne's  music.  He  could 
not  have  explained  why  he  did  not  do  this,  but 
the  fact  remained  that  it  was  not  done.  He 
knew  he  had  promised  to  write  those  little  songs, 
but  the  promise  and  the  performance  had  no  con- 
nection in  his  mind. 

Curtis  Baird  had  given  him  letters  of  introduc- 
tion to  various  people  who  were  likely  to  need 
music  at  their  fashionable  evenings  or  afternoons, 
and,  by  the  middle  of  December,  Jocelin  had  an 
engagement  to  sing  at  the  house  of  one  of  these 
people  during  a  reception.  He  arrived  early, 
and  charmed  the  hostess  by  his  exquisite  South- 
ern manner,  but  unfortunately  he  was  not  asked 
to  sing  till  rather  late,  and  he  spent  the  interval 
in  the  supper-room.  He  came  to  the  piano  with 
flaming  eyes  and  a  delightfully  wicked  smile. 
He  tossed  aside  his  roll  of  music,  said  he  would 
play  his  own  accompaniment,  and,  after  one  of 
his  characteristically  dreamy  preludes,  began  a 
lively  French  song.  He  sang  only  the  first 
stanza,  because  the  son  of  the  house  happened  to 
have  heard  that  song  before  elsewhere,  and  knew 
what  was  coming  next.  Jocelin  wanted  to  finish 


302 

it;  he  laughed  obstinately  in  the  face  of  the 
young  host,  and  tried  to  keep  his  hands  on  the 
keys,  but  was  finally  persuaded  to  desist. 

He  obtained  no  more  such  engagements  that 
winter. 

Madame  sent  her  boy  money  from  time  to  time, 
and  he  earned  a  little  for  himself,  spasmodically, 
by  singing  in  third-class  theatres  and  music-halls. 
His  letters  were  vague  and  unsatisfactory,  and  in 
the  early  summer  he  wrote  that  it  would  be  safer 
to  address  his  mail  to  the  general  post-office,  as  he 
was  likely  to  change  his  lodgings  often.  After 
this  the  letters  came  seldom,  and  madame  no 
longer  showed  them  to  Jacques  and  monsieur. 

"Of  course,  if  he  won't  come  home,  why,  he 
won't,"  Jacques  said  to  his  father.  "But  if  he  's 
sick,  we  can't  leave  him  up  there  to  die.  Mon 
dieu,  no ! " 

So,  one  cold  Wednesday  morning  in  December, 
Jacques  was  loitering  about  the  New  York  post- 
office,  making  himself  as  inconspicuous  as  he 
could  under  the  circumstances,  and  keeping  a 
watchful  eye  upon  the  delivery  window.  He  had 
ascertained  that  his  step-mother  wrote  to  Jocelin 
on  Sundays,  and  he  concluded  that  Jocelin,  in 
the  hope  of  getting  money,  would  come  for  the 
letters  with  some  promptness.  He  spent  most  of 
the  day  near  the  post-office,  but  no  Jocelin  ap- 
peared. In  the  afternoon  he  hunted  up  the  house 
corresponding  to  his  step-brother's  last  address, 


JACQUES'   BROTHER  303 

and  found  it  to  be  a  crowded  tenement  with  sev- 
eral families  on  each  floor.  After  he  had  made 
many  inquiries,  a  woman  in  the  cellar  volunteered 
a  few  remarks :  — 

"Did  ee  have  a  nose?  Aw  no!  I  ain't  forgot 
that  gent !  He  skipped  out  las'  June.  No  pay ! 
An'  the  ole  Moriarty  woman  wot  took  'im  on 
trust,  she  went  drunk  free  days.  Her  mad  was 
up  high.  Bad  lot,  was  n't  ee?  I  know  'd  they  'd 
be  after  him.  Them  Moriartys?  I  dunno.  The 
ole  man  got  the  Island." 

Fearing  that  he  had  been  imprudent  to  leave 
the  post-office,  Jacques  went  back  to  it  in  the 
evening,  but  had  no  success ;  and  it  was  not  until 
Thursday  afternoon  that  Jocelin  walked  up  to 
the  delivery  window,  received  his  letter,  and 
slouched  away.  He  was  thin  and  bent,  and  he 
looked  at  no  one. 

Jacques  followed  him,  not  because  he  was 
ashamed  to  speak  to  him  in  the  open  street,  but 
because  he  knew  Jocelin 's  emotional  possibilities, 
and  did  not  care  to  precipitate  a  scene.  He  had 
no  difficulty  in  following  him  unnoticed  through 
the  crowded,  narrow  streets,  and  at  last,  on  a 
specially  squalid  block,  the  remarks  of  the  juve- 
nile populace  began  to  indicate  that  Jocelin  was 
near  home.  Two  or  three  children  greeted  him 
with  the  words  of  a  popular  song,  slightly  al- 
tered :  — 

"Where  did  you  get  that  nose? 
Where  did  you  get  that  nose?  " 


304  DIANA   VICTEIX 

And  one  small  boy,  sitting  on  the  doorstep  of  the 
house  which  Jocelin  entered,  said,  in  derisive 
tones : — 

"Oh,  no!  he  ain't  no  Jew!  Look  at  dat  beak! 
Oh,  no!" 

But  Jocelin  only  shoved  him  aside,  went  in, 
and  closed  the  door. 

The  house  looked  particularly  quiet  and  un- 
pleasant. The  shutters  were  bowed  or  closed, 
and  there  was  a  dirty  sign,  "Room  for  Rent,"  in 
a  window  on  the  first  floor.  Jacques  walked 
past  and  came  back,  and  the  small  boy,  observ- 
ing him,  cried :  — 

"  'Ere  y'  are !  This  is  yer  place !  Wark  right 
up!  She  's  expectin'  yer!  " 

"Do  you  live  here?"  asked  Jacques. 

"Bet  yer  life  I  don't!"  said  the  small  boy. 
"Ho,  ho!" 

Jacques  felt  in  his  pocket  suggestively.  — 

"Do  you  happen  to  know  on  which  floor  that 
young  man  lives  who  came  in  here  just  now?  " 

"Top,"  said  the  boy  concisely.  "He  's  de 
skirt-dancer's  young  man.  Ain't  he  a  bute?  " 

Then,  looking  down  at  the  quarter  which 
Jacques  gave  him,  and  back  again  knowingly  at 
Jacques,  — 

"I  say,  does  the  guv'ment  pay  for  this  yer 
inquiry?  On  the  quiet?  Are  yuh?  " 

"No,"  replied  Jacques;  "nothing  of  the  sort. 
Are  you  sure  it 's  the  top  floor?" 


JACQUES'   BEOTHER  305 

"Aw,  who  yuh  bluffin"? "  said  the  boy,  still 
obstructing  the  doorway.  "I  bet  yuh  a  quarter 
yuh  take  'im  off  in  de  patrol!  "  And  he  held  up 
Jacques'  recent  benefice. 

"You  '11  lose  your  money  if  you  do,"  said 
Jacques.  "Run  along;  I 'm  in  a  hurry!"  and 
he  swung  the  young  prodigal  out  of  the  way  and 
entered  the  house. 

On  the  second  floor  a  door  opened  as  he  passed, 
and  a  woman's  voice  said:  — 

"Was  it  me  you  wanted  to  see?" 

He  answered,  "No,  madame,"  and  continued 
up  the  stairs.  Another  man  was  coming  down, 
and,  by  the  light  from  the  doorway  below,  Jacques 
saw  that  he  was  young  and  comparatively  well- 
dressed.  On  the  fourth  floor  there  were  three 
doors,  and  Jacques  knocked  upon  one  of  them  at 
random.  Another  opened,  and  an  old  woman 
poked  her  head  out. 

"Is  there  a  young  man,  a  Frenchman,  living 
on  this  floor?"  said  Jacques. 

"I  guess  so,"  she  muttered,  and  pointed  to  the 
third  door. 

He  knocked  on  this  one,  and,  receiving  no  an- 
swer, opened  it  and  stepped  into  the  room,  the 
head  of  the  old  woman  remaining  at  the  crack  of 
her  own  door  until  he  had  disappeared. 

Jocelin  sat  all  hunched  together  in  a  rocking- 
chair  by  the  window,  and  when  he  saw  Jacques, 
he  neither  moved  nor  spoke.  He  seemed  to  have 


306  DIANA    VICTRIX 

outlived  surprise  and  shame.  He  looked  at  his 
step-brother  as  apathetically  as  if  seeing  him 
were  an  every -day  occurrence.  There  was  a  girl 
lying  across  the  untidy  bed,  and,  when  she  real- 
ized that  a  man  stood  in  the  doorway,  she  sat  up, 
adjusting  her  hairpins,  and  said :  — 

"I  told  you  some  one  knocked  at  that  door." 

The  room  was  hazy  with  smoke  and  full  of  a 
stale,  evil  smell.  The  floor  was  littered  with 
torn  play-bills  and  ends  of  cigarettes.  In  the 
midst  of  this  grimy  wretchedness  Jacques'  pros- 
perity stood  out  arrogantly.  Even  he  was  aware 
of  it,  and  it  oppressed  him.  That  any  one  be- 
longing to  him  should  have  been  capable  of  fall- 
ing so  low  filled  him  with  wondering  sorrow,  and, 
for  the  first  time,  Jocelin's  weakness  and  incapa- 
city seemed  to  be  more  misfortunes  than  faults. 
There  was  neither  anger  nor  severity  in  Jacques' 
heart.  He  felt  the  uselessness  of  blame,  of  any- 
thing now  save  pity. 

"Well?"  he  said. 

"I  cannot  sing,"  said  Jocelin.  "My  throat  is 
burnt  out.  My  voice  is  dead." 

And  Jacques  knew  then  that  Jocelin's  heart 
was  broken. 

"I  cannot  sing,"  he  repeated. 

There  was  no  despair  in  his  words ;  despair  is 
active,  and  Jocelin  had  outlived  activity.  His 
voice  was  dead. 

Jacques'  throat  tightened  and  he  said:  "Never 


JACQUES'   BROTHER  307 

mind!  Never  mind!  "  in  a  lame,  ineffective  man- 
ner. 

"Don't  you  believe  him,  now;  he's  only  got 
a  cold,"  said  the  girl  011  the  bed,  speaking  in  a 
soothing  tone,  and  winking  and  making  signs  to 
instruct  Jacques  that  he  must  humor  the  invalid, 
and  acquiesce  in  this  view  of  the  case. 

"Are  you  the  skirt-dancer?"  asked  Jacques. 

"I  am  that  same,"  she  answered,  and  she 
swung  her  legs  nonchalantly  against  the  side  of 
the  bed. 

Her  hair  was  blondined  and  all  disheveled  and 
dead-looking.  Her  face  was  thin  and  streaked 
with  paint. 

"I  ain't  the  skirt-dancer.  The  four  hundred 
ain't  heard  of  me  yet,  but  I  'm  gettin'  there." 

Jacques  went  over  to  the  side  of  the  bed  and 
spoke  to  her  in  a  low  tone :  — 

"He  seems  to  me  a  very  sick  man.  How  long 
has  he  been  this  way?" 

"Pshaw!  He's  all  right!  He's  like  that 
when  the  opium's  wearing  off,  that 's  all." 

She  answered  with  an  assumption  of  bravado, 
but  there  was  anxious  questioning  in  her  eyes  as 
she  looked  at  Jacques. 

"How  long  has  he  been  with  you?" 

"Six  months,  I  guess.  It  ain't  my  fault!" 
she  added  bridling.  "His  voice  wasn't  no  more 
than  a  squeak  then.  He  'd  'a'  went  to  hell  a 
darned  sight  quicker  if  I  hadn't  took  care  of 
him!" 


308  DIANA   YICTRIX 

Jacques  stood  near  her  for  a  few  moments, 
thinking,  and  then  crossed  over  to  Jocelin.  There 
was  one  other  chair  in  the  room,  a  rickety  thing 
with  no  back;  this  he  drew  up  beside  his  step- 
brother and  sat  down  in  it,  laying  his  hand  on 
Jocelin's  knee  to  attract  his  attention. 

"Tell  me,  Jocelin,  how  are  you  ill?  Have 
you  a  cough?  " 

Jocelin  looked  at  him  vacantly  for  a  moment, 
as  if  collecting  his  thoughts,  and  then  he  said :  — 

"I  've  got  everything  —  that 's  bad." 

"Don't  you  believe  him  !  It  ain't  true,"  said 
the  girl.  There  was  a  sob  in  her  voice. 

"Do  you  want  to  come  home?"  Jacques  asked 
gently. 

"I  think  I  would  rather  die  than  do  anything 
else,"  replied  Jocelin  listlessly. 

"Who  are  you?"  said  the  girl  to  Jacques. 
She  left  the  bed  and  came  to  Jocelin. 

"I  am  his  brother." 

She  looked  at  him,  turned  her  back,  and 
walked  over  to  the  window.  She  leaned  her 
arms,  crossed,  up  against  the  dingy  panes  and 
pressed  her  forehead  against  them,  and  stayed 
there  with  her  back  to  the  two  men. 

"Get  your  hat,  and  come  with  me  to  a  doctor," 
Jacques  coaxed.  "He  will  fix  you  up  and  get 
you  in  shape  to  travel,  and  then  we  will  go  home. 
Maman  is  waiting  for  you,  Jocelin.  She  told 
me  to  beg  you  to  come  home.  Never  mind  about 


JACQUES'   BROTHER  309 

the  work ;  when  you  are  well  again,  we  can  think 
about  that.  We  will  see  what  the  doctor  says, 
and  when  you  are  ready  to  travel  we  will  go. 
Come!  Get  your  hat!  Where  is  it?  " 

Jocelin  arose  mechanically,  and  the  girl  by  the 
window  whirled  round. 

"That 's  the  way  you  do,  is  it?"  she  cried,  in 
a  high,  excited  voice.  "As  soon  as  your  fine 
relations  are  ready  to  take  you  up,  off  you  go! 
What  do  you  care  about  me?  I  'm  nothing!  " 

"Where  did  I  put  my  hat?"  said  Jocelin, 
wandering  bewildered  about  the  room. 

"I  might  'a'  knowed!  I  might  'a'  knowed! 
But  I  'm  a  born  fool!  " 

While  she  raged  and  cried,  Jacques  watched 
her  gloomily.  She  loved  this  half -imbecile  piece 
of  humanity  that  tottered  up  and  down  the  room. 
Women  always  loved  Jocelin.  There  was  that 
singer-woman  ten  years  ago.  There  was  Sylvia 
Bennett,  —  Jacques  had  always  believed  that  she 
had  a  liking  for  Jocelin  at  one  time.  He  thought 
of  Enid,  and  he  felt  ill-used  and  alone.  There 
was  injustice  somewhere. 

He  did  not  remember  Jeanne. 

Jocelin  finally  picked  up  his  hat,  which  had 
been  lying  on  the  bed  all  the  while,  and  Jacques 
went  up  to  the  girl  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"I  thank  you  for  being  kind  to  him.  I  believe 
you  have  been,  and  his  mother  will  be  grateful. 
If  you  care  at  all  about  him,  you  see  how  ill  he 


310  DIANA    VICTR1X 

is,  and  how  bad  it  is  for  him  to  be  here.  Please 
take  this  for  his  mother's  sake,  because  you  were 
good  to  him." 

He  held  out  a  roll  of  bills. 

"I  never  did  that  yellin',  and  all  that  row,  for 
no  money,"  she  said  sullenly.  "I'm  fond  of 
him.  He  had  little  ways  with  him,  soft  and 
quiet,  and  no  more  harm  in  him  than  a  kid. 
I  'in  goin'  to  miss  lookin'  after  him.  My  Lord !  " 

She  drew  her  hand  across  her  eyes  and  turned 
away. 

"Still,  I  think  you  'd  better  take  the  money," 
said  Jacques. 

"Well,  maybe  I  better  had,"  she  answered  in- 
differently, and  held  out  her  hand. 

He  gave  the  money  to  her,  and  went  towards 
the  door,  where  Jocelin  already  stood. 

"Ain't  you  goin'  to  say  good-by  cat,  dog,  nor 
nothin'  ?  "  asked  the  girl. 

"Tell  her  good-by !  "  whispered  Jacques,  touch- 
ing his  step-brother. 

"Good-by!  "  said  Jocelin. 

They  heard  her  sobbing  as  they  went  down  the 
stairs,  at  least  Jacques  heard  her. 


CHAPTER   III 

SYLVIA   BEGINS   TO   BE   SOMEBODY 

THAT  same  December,  Sylvia's  book  was  ac- 
cepted. 

She  received  the  precious  letter  from  the  pub- 
lishers in  the  noon  mail,  and  Enid,  coming  home 
to  luncheon  at  one  o'clock,  found  her  walking 
up  and  down  the  room,  indulging  at  intervals  in 
a  short,  delighted  laugh.  Beneath  sorrow  and 
weariness  Sylvia  grew  painfully  silent  and  still, 
but  when  joy  came  to  her  she  found  that  she 
must  move  and  speak,  and  she  felt  as  if  she  were 
a  stranger  to  herself. 

She  had  had  two  or  three  little  sketches  and 
several  short  poems  accepted  during  the  year, 
and  all  the  while  she  had  been  at  work  upon  the 
book.  Her  tenacity  of  purpose  filled  Enid  with 
wonderment.  She  was  at  work  all  the  time,  and 
working  did  her  good.  She  seemed  to  dread 
being  idle,  to  be  afraid  to  stop  one  instant.  The 
advantages  of  those  years  of  vacillating  effort,  of 
writing  and  re-writing,  of  polishing  and  chang- 
ing, showed  themselves  at  once  in  her  style.  She 
did  not  have  to  waste  time  in  getting  command 


312  DIANA    VICTEIX 

of  her  instrument.  Now  that  she  had  something 
to  say,  she  found  herself  ready  to  say  it. 

Her  book  was  the  story  of  a  man  who  made  a 
failure  of  his  life.  When  she  began  to  write  it, 
she  had  not  intended  that  he  should  fail,  —  he 
was  an  artist,  not  a  singer,  —  but  she  grew  inter- 
ested in  his  development,  and  somehow  she  could 
not  seem  to  make  him  do  anything  except  fail. 
The  book  was  unreal,  illogical,  otherwise,  and 
Sylvia's  appreciation  of  art  made  her  at  last  con- 
sent that  the  hero  should  fail,  rather  than  the 
book. 

Enid  read  the  story,  chapter  by  chapter,  as  it 
was  written,  and  found  the  young  artist  similar, 
in  many  respects,  to  Jocelin,  but  she  did  not  say 
so.  The  plot,  however,  had  nothing  to  do  with 
Jocelin ;  that  belonged  entirely  to  Sylvia's  imagi- 
nation. The  young  artist  was  extremely  dissi- 
pated, and,  at  the  same  time,  devoted  himself  to 
painting  scenes  from  the  life  of  Christ,  especially 
crucifixions.  Worn  out  by  excesses,  he  became 
insane,  —  imagined  first  that  he  was  Satan,  and 
had  committed  the  unpardonable  sin,  and  after- 
wards, by  a  sudden  transition,  became  convinced 
that  he  was  the  Christ,  and  starved  himself  to 
death  by  trying  to  carry  out  the  forty  days'  fast. 
It  was  a  daring  piece  of  work,  and  Sylvia  felt 
desperate  over  it  many  times,  but  would  not  listen 
to  Enid's  pleadings  that  she  should  let  such  un- 
healthy speculation  alone.  The  part  of  the  book 


SYLVIA  BEGINS   TO  BE  SOMEBODY     313 

that  Enid  found  most  incomprehensible  was  the 
character-study  of  the  heroine.  She  could  under- 
stand why  Sylvia  should  be  able  to  portray  the 
artist,  and  why  she  should,  by  her  very  heredity, 
be  interested  in  morbid  psychological  investiga- 
tion ;  but  this  heroine,  this  subtle  combination  of 
intellect  and  sensuality,  the  artist's  Magdalen,  — 
how  could  Sylvia  understand  such  a  creature,  and 
where  had  she  ever  seen  her? 

Sylvia  only  said :  — 

"She  is  real,  then?     You  feel  her?  " 

The  publishers  suggested  modifications.  They 
felt  that  the  English-speaking  public  was  not 
yet  able  to  endure  some  of  Sylvia's  epithets,  and 
they  could  not  quite  consent  to  such  a  detailed 
account  of  the  second  part  of  the  insanity.  They 
thought  that  a  treatment  by  suggestion  would  be 
stronger;  they  feared  that  the  majority  of  read- 
ers might  consider  the  present  treatment  rather 
blasphemous.  This  idea  astonished  the  devout 
and  reverent  Sylvia,  and  she  was  convinced  that 
the  publishers  were  mistaken  in  their  judgment  of 
the  public  taste,  but  she  agreed  with  them  that 
suggestion  might  be  stronger  than  detailed  de- 
scription. The  main  point  was  that,  with  these 
modifications,  the  book  was  accepted. 

Enid  came  home  to  luncheon  tired  that  day, 
but  when  she  saw  Sylvia's  face  she  forgot  her- 
self. 

"Read  it!  "  said  Sylvia,  thrusting  the  precious 


314  DIANA    VICTEIX 

letter  into  her  hands,  and,  after  a  moment,  in  a 
rapturous,  wondering  tone :  — 

"I  have  begun  to  be  somebody  !" 

Her  eyes  filled  with  light. 

It  was  Jocelin  who  had  helped  her  to  achieve 
this  success! 

The  thought  startled  her,  and,  frightened  at 
her  own  excitement,  she  turned  and  walked  away 
from  Enid. 

Poor  Enid !  who  had  dreamed  once  that  when 
this  day  came,  Sylvia  would  say  to  her :  — 

"It  is  because  of  you.  You  have  brought  me 
back  to  health.  It  is  because  I  love  you  that  I 
have  been  able  to  do  this.  It  is  your  help,  your 
encouragement,  your  faith  in  me,  that  have 
brought  me  to  a  realization  of  my  power." 

She  had  known  for  a  year  that  Sylvia  would 
never  say  this  to  her.  She  had  schooled  herself 
to  the  knowledge  that  this  was  one  of  the  things 
she  must  do  without,  but  she  missed  it  now,  be- 
cause it  had  been  a  part  of  her  dream  of  the  hap- 
pening. 

After  the  night  on  the  mountain-top,  Sylvia 
had  said  to  her :  — 

"I  have  succeeded  in  making  Mr.  Castaigne 
promise  not  to  throw  away  his  talents  in  future. 
He  is  going  to  write  and  edit  Jeanne's  songs." 

Enid  waited  for  her  to  tell  more,  thinking :  — 

"After  a  while,  when  she  has  forgotten  him  a 
little,  when  she  realizes  that  her  life  and  her 


SYLVIA  BEGINS   TO  BE  SOMEBODY     315 

are  more  to  her  than  any  man,  she  will  tell 
me  about  it." 

But  Sylvia  never  told  anything  more,  and  Enid 
knew  it  was  because  she  had  not  "forgotten  him 
a  little."  And  to-day,  when  her  eyes  were  full 
of  smiling  light,  she  had  turned  away  from  Enid. 

They  sat  down  to  their  luncheon  with  the  letter 
on  the  table  between  them,  and  they  read  snatches 
of  it  aloud  to  each  other  between  mouthfuls. 

"How  did  your  morning  go?"  asked  Sylvia, 
when  they  had  arrived  at  crackers  and  New  York 
cream-cheese,  and  knew  the  contents  of  the  letter 
by  heart. 

Enid's  expression  changed. 

"Do  not  let  us  talk  about  my  morning,"  she 
said,  with  a  weary  smile. 

She  was  silent  for  some  time,  playing  with  her 
napkin-ring,  while  Sylvia  waited,  gravely  watch- 
ing her. 

Enid's  face  had  lost  its  shining  look  of  triumph 
during  the  two  years  which  had  passed  since  her 
winter  in  New  Orleans.  It  was  an  older  face 
now,  and  grave,  but  more  than  ever  interesting. 
The  beautiful  lines  of  the  mouth  and  chin  ex- 
pressed, even  more  strongly  than  they  used  to, 
her  high  courage  and  faith  and  indomitable  will, 
but  there  was  a  new  look  in  the  eyes;  they  were 
—beginning  to  tell  the  story  of  renunciation. 

The  two  years  had  been  difficult  ones.  She 
had  been  able  to  put  her  radical  theories,  to  a 


316  DIANA   VICTEIX 

certain  extent,  into  practice;  she  had  been  able 
to  prove  that,  for  herself  at  least,  her  social  de- 
mocracy was  a  practical  and  possible  thing;  but 
the  elusive  element  called  success,  the  uplifting- 
consciousness  of  achievement,  had  gone  out  of 
her  life,  and  she  knew  that,  in  the  old  delight- 
ful way,  it  was  never  coming  back,  for  something 
in  herself  which  had  responded  to  it  was  gone 
also. 

When  she  came  back  to  Boston  after  her  win- 
ter in  the  South,  she  found  that  she  had  ceased 
to  be  a  novelty  and  an  infant  prodigy.  The  fad- 
dists had  forgotten  her  and  were  running  after 
new  lions,  —  theosophic  ones  about  this  time. 
Interest  in  social  and  industrial  questions  had 
increased,  but  lecturers  on  those  questions  had 
also  multiplied.  She  found  the  learned  men,  the 
pure  scholars,  in  their  same  state  of  scientific 
inertia,  weighing  possibilities,  perfecting  defini- 
tions, seeking  new  points  of  view.  Enid  was  a 
scholar,  too;  her  mind  rejoiced  in  dialectics,  and 
dealt  brilliantly  with  problem  and  theory;  but 
there  was  something  in  her  besides  the  scholar, 
something  that  warred  with  the  scholarly  impulse. 
She  always  wanted  to  put  her  theories  into  action, 
to  see  them  working.  She  never  waited  to  look 
at  them  from  all  their  points  of  view.  She  told 
a  very  learned  and  uncertain  man  once  that,  if 
she  waited  to  do  this,  she  should  do  nothing  else, 
as  points  of  view  belonged  to  the  infinities  of  the 


SYLVIA  BEGINS   TO  BE  SOMEBODY     317 

Creator.     The  learned  man  spoke  of  her  after 
that  as  brilliant  but  not  sound. 

The  great  mass  of  ordinary,  well-to-do,  unin- 
tellectual  humanity,  absorbed  in  many  and  varied 
interests,  found  her  singleness  and  constancy  of 
purpose  something  of  a  bore. 

The  working-men,  like  their  learned  brethren, 
also  distrusted  her.  They  received  her  advances 
kindly,  letting  her  know  that  they  believed  she 
meant  well,  but  that  they  had  no  confidence  in  her 
judgment  on  practical  issues.  Her  very  scholar- 
ship and  facility  of  speech  proved  a  hindrance 
to  her,  for  often  those  whom  she  wanted  to  con- 
vince and  instruct  could  not  follow  her  words,  and 
did  not  know  what  she  was  talking  about. 
'-  In  the  various  settlements  with  which  she  allied 
herself  she  was  cordially  welcomed.  Among  in- 
dividuals she  made  many  personal  friends,  who 
adored  her  and  told  her  all  their  sorrows;  but  it 
is  a  little  wearisome  to  listen  eternally  to  the 
other  person's  grievance,  and  there  were  days 
when  Enid  cried  out  against  this  constant  demand 
for  sympathy. 

In  her  better  moods,  she  realized  and  acknow- 
ledged that  the  giving  was  not  all  on  her  side, 
and  she  was  grateful  for  the  help  which  she  re- 
ceived from  these  friends,  —  the  silent  lessons  in 
patience,  endurance,  self-sacrifice,  cheerfulness, 
—  the  training,  as  Enid  laughingly  expressed  it, 
in  the  use  of  words  of  one  syllable. 


318  LIANA    VICTHIX 

"I  am  a  better  teacher  than  I  used  to  be,"  she 
would  say.  "My  Back  Bay  school  girls  under- 
stand their  history  and  political  economy  as  they 
never  did  before,  and  it  is  because  my  friends  in 
the  other  part  of  the  city  are  giving  me  a  free 
normal  course  of  instruction  in  the  art  of  simple 
and  accurate  explanations." 

But  to-day  she  had  had  a  discouraging  expe- 
rience. She  played  with  the  napkin-ring  till  the 
little  maid,  the  daughter  of  the  carpenter  who 
lived  on  the  floor  below,  came  in  and  removed 
the  dishes  with  a  daintiness  and  dispatch  which 
bespoke  somebody's  good  training. 

"Was  it  the  strike?"  asked  Sylvia. 

Enid  nodded. 

"They  think  I  have  deserted  them.  I  could 
not  make  them  understand.  I  could  not  hold 
them  when  I  spoke  to  them.  They  were  grim 
and  unresponsive.  Two  or  three  of  the  ones  who 
know  me  well  came  up  afterwards,  and  the  pa- 
thetic part  of  it  was  the  way  they  tried  to  show 
they  were  sorry  for  me  personally,  although  they 
felt  I  had  not  been  fair  to  them.  They  made 
excuses  for  me  to  myself,  and  one  of  them  cried 
and  begged  me  not  to  mind.  They  say  I  advo- 
cated the  strike  at  first.  Oh,  Sylvia!  one  girl 
said  she  never  would  have  gone  into  it  if  it  had 
not  been  for  me.  And  yet  I  told  them  in  the 
beginning  how  weak  and  new  their  organization 
was.  It  is  all  a  muddle.  There  was  a  labor 


SYLVIA  BEGINS   TO  BE  SOMEBODY     319 

agitator  at  the  meeting,  one  of  the  fierce,  violent 
kind,  and  he  had  those  poor,  tired  women  almost 
in  hysterics.  He  understood  my  position  better 
than  they  did.  He  knew  where  I  was  right. 
But  whenever  I  tried  to  corner  him  he  would  not 
argue,  he  would  only  burst  forth  in  invective. 
And  I  understood  his  position,  too.  We  frater- 
nized on  several  points,  but  he  would  not  let  them 
give  up  the  strike;  and  in  the  end,  although  I 
could  see  they  were  a  little  uncertain,  they  chose 
-to  follow  him,  not  me.  It  was  natural  that  they 
should.  He  is  one  of  them ;  he  has  had  to  fight 
the  same  sort  of  oppression  they  are  fighting 
now." 

She  got  up  with  a  little  laugh  and  walked  to 
the  window. 

"  Nobody  trusts  me,  Sylvia,  —  nobody  tries  to 
help,  nobody  cares,"  she  said. 

"Present  company,  etc.,  I  suppose,"  Sylvia 
remarked,  smiling  and  following  her  across  the 
room. 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course,"  she  answered,  and  stood 
still,  looking  down  into  the  street. 

The  next  moment  she  turned  round  suddenly,- 
and  her  face  was  decidedly  flushed. 

"Mr.  Dumarais  is  coming  here  to  call,"  she 
announced,  and  the  unusualness  of  her  remark 
made  the  forced  calmness  of  her  tone  absurd. 

"How  do  you  know?"  cried  Sylvia  staring. 


320  DIANA    V1CTRIX 

"  Because  he  is  on  the  other  side  of  the  street ; 
I  saw  him,  and  he  saw  me." 

Enid  picked  up  her  hat  and  jacket,  walked 
rapidly  to  her  own  bedroom,  which  opened  into 
the  little  parlor,  went  in  and  closed  the  door  be- 
hind her  with  a  hasty  bang. 

"I  wonder  if  Jocelin  is  with  him  ?  "  said  Sylvia ; 
and  she  sat  down,  pressing  the  publisher's  letter 
against  her  eyes,  because  the  room  seemed  to  be 
turning  round. 


CHAPTER   IV 
JOCELIN,  SAVIOR! 

AT  first  the  New  York  physician  made  guarded 
statements  about  Jocelin's  inherited  delicacy  of 
constitution,  looking  at  Jacques  curiously  the 
while,  as  if  trying  to  discover,  from  the  relation 
between  these  two  young  men,  just  how  far  it  was 
prudent  to  be  explicit.  But  when  he  gathered 
from  Jacques'  manner  that  plain  speaking  was 
expected  of  him,  he  said  some  very  plain  things 
in  language  both  medical  and  colloquial. 

Jocelin  sat  still  meanwhile,  apparently  hearing 
but  little  that  was  said.  The  physician  advised 
keeping  him  in  New  York  at  a  private  hospital 
for  a  couple  of  weeks.  By  that  time  rest,  good 
food,  and  freedom  from  temptation  would  have 
put  him  in  a  better  condition  to  travel,  and  his 
appearance  would  be  less  of  a  shock  to  his  mo- 
ther. 

This  proposition  suited  Jacques,  who  had  been 
considering  how  he  should  go  to  Boston  if  he 
must  watch  Jocelin  every  minute.  So  the  matter 
was  arranged,  and  Jacques  wrote  a  letter  to  his 
step-mother,  telling  her  that  her  boy  was  not 


322  DIANA    VICTRIX 

well,  and  the  doctor  said  he  must  be  taken  care 
of  for  some  time.  He  warned  her  that  Jocelin 
must  not  be  spoken  to  about  his  voice,  but  sug- 
gested that  she  might  have  the  piano  tuned. 

Jocelin  protested  against  the  private  room  in 
the  hospital. 

"I  will  not  stay  here!"  he  cried.  "Where 
are  my  cigarettes?  I  will  not  remain." 

He  wept  and  wrung  his  hands.  He  abused 
Jacques.  Finally  he  sat  down  sullenly,  and  the 
look  of  hopelessness  came  back  to  his  face.  The 
next  time  he  spoke  he  seemed  confused. 

"You  always  have  your  own  way,"  he  said  to 
Jacques,  as  if  he  were  seeking  some  lost  connec- 
tion of  thought  in  his  mind.  "You  do  as  you 
like." 

"You  don't  know,"  said  Jacques,  moodily. 
"I  don't  have  my  own  way  as  much  as  you  think. 
Stay  here  only  a  little  while,  till  I  come  back, 
and  then  we  '11  go  home.  Shake  hands,  Jocelin ! 
we  '11  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  you  and  I,  —  eh,  my 
brother?" 

And  Jocelin  wept  and  mumbled,  but  gave  his 
trembling  hand  obediently. 

Then  Jacques  went  to  Boston  to  find  Enid. 
And  her,  also,  he  found  in  the  slums.  When  he 
began  to  notice  that  he  was  once  more  in  narrow, 
ill  -  smelling  streets,  with  children  everywhere 
under  his  feet,  the  memory  of  Jocelin 's  barren, 
smoke-filled  room  and  the  haggard  skirt-dancer 


JOCELIN,   SAVIOR!  323 

caiue  back  to  him  with  a  wave  of  disgust,  and  he 
felt  sick.  Presently  the  thought  occurred  to  him 
that  Enid  was  down  here  in  the  midst  of  this 
wretchedness,  and  he  grew  angry,  very  angry  in- 
deed, —  with  Enid,  it  is  to  be  supposed,  since  no 
one  else  could  be  held  responsible  for  the  choice 
of  her  present  abode. 

When  he  entered  the  court  in  which  she  lived, 
the  "Blind  Alley,"  as  he  apostrophized  it,  he 
could  not  but  notice  that,  although  dingy,  it  was, 
comparatively  speaking,  quiet  and  respectable. 
Several  small  children  stared  at  him  and  impeded 
his  steps,  but  said  nothing.  There  were  muslin 
curtains  at  the  three  windows  on  the  second  floor 
of  one  house,  and,  as  Jacques  considered  them 
from  the  other  side  of  the  street,  Enid  appeared 
at  the  middle  window.  He  had  been  in  a  bad 
temper  a  moment  before,  but  at  sight  of  her  he 
forgot  everything  except  that  he  had  come  to  find 
her  and  she  was  here.  He  lifted  his  hat,  smiled 
up  at  her,  and  crossed  the  street. 

The  carpenter's  wife  'on  the  first  floor  said 
she'd  "see,"  and  returned  after  a  few  moments 
with  the  information  that  he  might  walk  right 
up,  "second  floor,  third  door  to  the  left." 

Enid  and  Sylvia  welcomed  him  cordially,  and 
Enid  felt  herself  blushing  again  when  he  shook 
hands  with  her.  It  was  flattering  that  he  had 
really  come  back  as  he  said  he  should.  He  looked 
so  well!  so  capable!  His  eyes  were  on  a  level 


324  DIANA    VICTEIX 

with  her  own,  and  smiled  at  her  with  such  a 
frank  and  wholesome  delight  that  her  color  grew 
still  rosier.  His  hair  was  already  beginning  to 
turn  gray  on  the  temples,  and  it  gave  him  a 
rather  distinguished  appearance. 

They  sat  down  and  beamed  upon  one  another 
speechlessly  for  a  moment,  as  people  will  who 
have  not  met  for  some  time.  Then  Enid  said, 
smiling :  — 

"  Well,  how  do  you  like  our  little  slum  ?  Do 
you  approve?  " 

"I  approve  of  the  inside,  yes!"  he  answered, 
looking  around  at  the  pretty  room  with  its  many 
books  and  pictures,  its  cosy  window-seat  and 
cheerful  wood -fire. 

"  You  are  incorrigible !  "  laughed  Enid.  "  Will 
you  make  no  other  concessions?" 

"I  approve  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  room, 
minus  some  of  their  convictions,"  he  said  teas- 
ingly. 

"I  foresee  a  discussion,"  said  Sylvia,  "and  I 
move  we  rule  convictions  out  of  the  conversation 
until  Mr.  Dumarais  has  told  us  something  about 
New  Orleans.  How  is  Mrs.  Baird?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  how  is  Eoma  ?  "  cried  Enid.  "  Tell 
us  about  her.  She  writes,  but  her  letters  are  so 
full  of  '  Curtis, '  we  never  find  out  anything  about 
herself.  Curtis  is  an  admirable  young  man,  we 
all  know  that,  but  a  little  of  him  goes  a  long  way 
in  a  letter." 


JOCELIN,   SAVIOR!  325 

Jacques  laughed. 

"Just  as  hard  on  us  as  she  ever  was,  isn't  she, 
Miss  Sylvia?"  he  said,  and  proceeded  to  chatter 
merrily  about  Roma  and  her  husband,  about  mon- 
sieur, madame,  the  old  house,  —  about  himself 
a  little,  in  answer  to  their  questions.  And,  of 
course,  he  had  to  hear  of  Sylvia's  book,  which 
information  he  received  in  the  polite,  unapprecia- 
tive  fashion  of  the  unliterary  man.  Sylvia  thought 
that  when  she  mentioned  the  name  of  her  publish- 
ers he  must  surely  awaken  to  the  fact  that  she 
had  written  something  worth  while,  but,  strange 
to  say,  the  celebrated  firm-name  had  apparently 
no  meaning  for  this  benighted  young  stock -broker. 
He  only  said  "Ah!"  vaguely,  and  made  a  tame 
little  joke  about  numbering  an  author  —  no,  he 
said  authoress  —  among  his  friends.  He  seemed 
much  more  interested  in  trying  to  find  out  what 
Enid  had  been  doing,  but  she  gave  him  scant 
satisfaction  about  herself. 

Sylvia  arose  after  a  while  and  went  to  a  table 
near  the  door  of  her  own  room.  Standing  there, 
idly  ruffling  the  pages  of  a  magazine,  she  said :  — 

"And  Mr.  Jocelin?  You  have  not  told  us 
anything  about  him.  How  is  he?" 

There  was  a  short,  expressive  silence.  Jacques 
had  anticipated  this  question,  and  had  decided 
that  he  might  as  well  tell  the  plain  truth. 

"Perhaps  the  less  said  about  Jocelin  the  bet- 
ter, mademoiselle,"  he  replied  briefly. 


326  DIANA   VICTRIX 

Enid  turned  towards  Sylvia  with  a  numb  feel- 
ing. What  was  Jacques  thinking  about  to  say 
such  a  thing?  What  would  Sylvia  do?  Sylvia 
was  standing  by  the  table  waiting  for  Jacques  to 
continue.  She  had  not  even  changed  color ;  her 
face  was  quietly  sympathetic  and  expectant. 

Enid  had  reckoned  without  Sylvia's  pride. 

"New  York  has  been  too  much  for  him," 
Jacques  resumed.  "I  always  knew  it  would  be, 
but  they  would  n't  listen  to  me.  It  was  hardly 
his  fault.  He  never  had  any  moral  stamina. 
He  is  all  gone,  every  way.  No  good!  Never 
will  be  any  good!  " 

"His  voice?  "  asked  Sylvia,  and  her  own  voice 
did  not  tremble. 

"He  said  to  me,  '  My  voice  is  dead!  '  and,  I 
give  you  my  word,  I  felt  as  if  it  were  a  person 
that  had  died.  He  destroyed  it,  and  now  it  is 
partly  that  thought  which  is  killing  him.  Such 
a  voice  as  he  had,  that  boy !  I  remember,  when 
he  was  little,  how  he  used  to  sing  and  sing!  He 
was  never  anything  but  voice  all  his  life." 

"He  is  ill,  then?"  said  Sylvia,  opening  the 
door  of  her  study. 

Her  calmness  had  disarmed  Jacques,  and  he 
spoke  now  quite  freely.  Enid  could  have  stran- 
gled him. 

"  111,  —  perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  say  worn 
out.  The  doctor  says  it  is  a  wonder  that  he  has 
lasted  this  long.  He  began  to  go  down  as  soon 


JOCELIN,   SAVIOR!  327 

as  he  went  to  New  York.  He  is  there  now  at 
a  hospital.  I  am  going  to  take  him  home  with 
me.  I  am  sorry  to  be  the  bearer  of  such  sad 
news,  mademoiselle;  you  and  Jocelin  were  always 
such  good  friends." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "we  were.  It  is  indeed  sad 
news.  How  grieved  his  mother  will  be  !  I  am 
very  sorry.  Enid,  I  am  going  to  my  room  for 
a  while,  and  I  will  leave  you  and  Mr.  Dumarais 
to  revive  old  times  by  fighting  over  your  convic- 
tions. Perhaps  I  shall  write  to  the  publishers 
to  make  an  appointment  with  them.  I  believe 
we  decided  it  would  be  wise  to  accept  the  royalty 
offer,  rather  than  the  other  one,  — did  we  not?" 
The  door  closed  behind  her. 

She  shot  the  bolt  softly,  and  sat  down  before 
her  flat  desk  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  At  first 
her  most  clearly  defined  feeling  was  one  of  dull 
amazement  at  herself.  Did  she  really  not  care  ? 
-—  For  a  year  and  a  half  Sylvia  had  been  im- 
mersed in  active,  definite  work;  her  mind  and 
intellect  had  been  sternly  bent  to  the  accomplish- 
ment of  a  certain  task;  and  in  the  interval  her 
tormented  and  overtaxed  emotional  centres  had 
profited  by  their  long  rest.  They  no  longer  re- 
sponded indiscriminately  to  hysteric  excitations; 
they  had  become,  on  the  whole,  more  self-respect- 
ing; and  of  this  Sylvia  was  not  conscious,  having 
tampered  so  little  with  them  of  late. 

When  the  first  dullness  had  lessened,  she  began 


328  DIANA    VICTEIX 

to  be  aware  that  the  reason  she  ought  to  be  sorry, 
the  reason  she  wanted  to  be  sorry,  was  because 
he  had  broken  his  promise ;  and  gradually  there 
stirred  the  realization  that  she  had  been  of  no 
Xise  to  him,  that  she  had  never  helped  him.  The 
humiliating  thought  crept  in  upon  her  pride  and 
awakened  it,  and,  on  a  sudden,  the  self-control 
had  broken  down  before  a  torrent  of  grief  and 
shame. 

She  had  believed  that  God  had  intrusted  to 
her  the  saving  of  a  soul.  To  her  !  Oh,  folly  ! 
It  was  not  true.  It  never  had  been  true.  This 
was  a  just  punishment  for  her  pride  and  vain- 
glory. Who  was  she  that  she  should  presume  to 
believe  she  had  been  elected  to  save  a  soul?  She 
was  not  any  use,  after  all.  He  had  forgotten  as 
soon  as  he  went  away  from  her.  He  was  dying, 
Jacques  said,  dying  because  he  had  worn  himself 
out.  And  she  had  thought  she  could  save  him ! 

She  made  no  sound.  She  sat  with  her  chin  in 
her  hands  and  her  lips  set,  and  the  great  tears 
rolled  down  her  face  unchecked  through  her  fin- 
gers. She  was  aware  of  curious  contradictions 
in  her  consciousness.  She  knew,  now  that  the 
shock  had  come,  that  all  these  months  she  had 
been  dreaming  that  some  day  he  would  come  back 
to  her  and  say,  "I  have  conquered!"  But  she 
knew,  too,  that  she  had  expected  this  failure,  that 
she  was  not  surprised.  It  was  strange,  but  she 
had  been  believing  both  these  incompatible  things 


JOCELIN,   SAVIOR!  329 

for  more  than  a  year,  —  that  he  would  make  him- 
self worthy  of  her,  and  also  that  he  would  fail. 
It  was  only  a  half  disappointment. 

"  I  was  so  sure  of  myself  for  a  while  !  I  worked ; 
I  believed  I  was  worth  something  to  somebody, 
but  it  was  not  true.  I  knew  he  could  not;  I 
knew  it  all  along.  The  man  in  the  book  could 
not.  Oh,  I  wish  I  had  made  the  man  in  the 
book  conquer !  I  wish  somebody  had  conquered ! 
Jocelin !  Jocelin ! ' ' 

Her  Puritan  sense  of  individual  responsibility 
would  not  allow  her  to  excuse  him  altogether. 
She  could  not  say,  as  some  might  have  said :  "  It 
was  not  his  fault;  he  could  not  help  it!"  She 
believed  he  could  have  made  a  choice,  and  she 
knew  he  only  drifted.  She  thought  of  his  eyes 
as  he  knelt  on  the  rock  in  the  moonlight  and 
promised  to  take  up  his  cross  and  endure  and 
work.  She  heard  his  voice  again,  singing,  as  he 
had  sung  when  he  went  down  the  mountain  in 
the  early  morning.  He  was  very  young  to  be 
"all  worn  out,"  younger  than  she,  — he  was  only 
twenty-eight.  Perhaps  another  woman  might 
have  held  him,  might  have  lifted  him.  But  she, 
Sylvia,  was  of  no  use.  Perhaps,  if  she  had  mar- 
ried him,  she  might  have  lifted  him.  But  this 
i  feminine  fallacy  merely  glanced  through  her  mind, 
A — it  is  losing  its  hold  upon  the  women  of  her 
generation.  She  knew  that  marriage  would  not 
have  helped  Jocelin.  No,  even  remorse  could 


330  DIANA   VICTRIX 

not  sting  her,  and  she  wished  that  it  might.  If 
only  she  had  done  him  a  wrong,  she  might  hate 
herself  for  his  sake.  But  he  had  suffered  no  ill 
from  her. 

Jacques  said  he  was  "no  good;  "  he  had  begun 
to  go  down  as  soon  as  he  went  to  New  York. 
She  spread  out  her  hands  before  her,  as  if  to  keep 
some  one  away.  She  remembered  how  he  stum- 
bled past  her  door  Mardi  Gras  night.  She  re- 
membered how  he  looked  at  her  when  they  sat 
alone  together  on  the  mountain. 

Why  had  he  ever  lived?  Why  did  God  per- 
mit such  a  man  to  exist  and  to  be  loved?  She 
covered  her  face.  A  man  who  only  drifted,  down, 
down !  What  had  he  done  except  sing,  and  wear 
his  voice  out? 

She  clasped  her  hands  on  the  desk,  and  stared 
down  at  the  papers  and  letters. 

It  was  cruel  to  let  him  come  into  the  world 
just  to  wear  himself  out.  What  was  he  good 
for?  Something,  surely? 

The  letter  from  the  publishers  lay  on  top  of 
the  other  papers,  and  it  caught  her  eye.  She 
lifted  it  slowly,  hesitatingly,  a  look  almost  of  fear 
coming  into  her  face. 

What  was  he  good  for?  Three  hours  ago, 
who  said,  "It  is  Jocelin  who  has  made  me  what 
I  am,  who  has  set  free  my  power? "  Did  she 
remember  that,  as  she  sat  with  the  letter  uplifted, 
and  the  startled,  pondering  look  in  her  eyes? 


JOCELIN,   SAVIOR  '.  331 

One  evening,  long-  ago,  Jocelin  had  played  lit- 
tle inconsequent  melodies  on  the  piano,  and  sung 
little  whimsical  songs,  and  she  had  said  to  her- 
self, "The  world  is  in  a  hurry,  —  let  it  go  I  "  Be- 
fore she  met  this  man,  she  had  never  rested, 
never  relaxed ;  she  was  always  tired  from  trying 
to  keep  up  with  the  hurrying  world.  He  had 
beguiled  her  into  stopping  a  moment  to  take 
breath,  and  she  had  caught  hold  of  life.  She 
had  said  to  herself  that  evening,  "I  must  help 
him  to  be  something,  —  it  does  not  matter  about 
myself.  I  will  give  myself  up.  I  must  help 
him.  I  will!"  And  after  that  she  had  begun 
to  grow  stronger,  to  forget  herself,  and  to  have 
confidence,  unconsciously,  in  her  own  judgment. 
She  had  begun  to  write. 

Was  it  she  who  had  been  appointed  a  savior  of 
souls  ?  Or  Jocelin  ? 

They  would  say  that  he  was  never  anything 
but  voice,  that  he  had  never  accomplished  any- 
thing. And  yet  she  owed  her  moral  health  to 
him. 

There  was  another  night  when  she  had  said 
that  he  must  plead  for  her  before  the  Judge. 
Yes!  When  he  stood  there,  shamed  and  weak 
and  stained  with  sin,  should  she  not  stand  beside 
him  and  say,  "For  himself  he  cannot  speak. 
Let  him  say  a  word  for  me.  I  am  his  success. 
Nobody  knows  but  me.  He  himself  does  not 
know.  I  did  not  know,  even  I,  until  he  left  me 


332  DIANA   VICTRIX 

alone.  And  then  I  said  I  would  stand  firm,  that 
he  might  say  he  had  done  what  he  could.  I  have 
made  a  little  success.  It  is  not  much,  —  but  it 
belongs  to  him." 

Were  these  the  things  that  Sylvia  thought? 
Who  can  tell? 

Was  it  that  she  did  not  love  him  enough,  or 
that  she  loved  him  too  well,  to  loosen  her  grasp 
upon  life? 

There  were  no  more  tears,  and  her  face  grew 
calm  and  gentle.  Perhaps  she  was  doing  wThat 
her  race  had  always  delighted  in,  —  dogmatizing 
concerning  the  intentions  of  the  Almighty?  Be 
that  as  it  may,  it  gave  her  peace. 

After  a  while  she  prayed  a  strange  prayer  in  a 
whisper :  — 

"Lord,  when  Thou  dost  bid  Jocelin  to  stand 
forth  at  the  Last  Day,  set  Thou  also  my  secret 
sins  beside  his  open  faults,  in  the  light  of  Thy 
countenance,  that  all  men  may  see." 

Then  she  wrote  a  business  letter  to  her  pub- 
lishers. 


CHAPTER   V 

"IF  AT   FIRST   YOU    DON'T   SUCCEED" 

SYLVIA'S  matter-of-fact  parting  speech  aston- 
ished Enid,  but  was  sufficiently  reassuring  to 
allow  her  to  think  about  her  own  affairs,  and  she 
found  herself  somewhat  disconcerted  at  being 
thus  abruptly  left  alone  with  Jacques.  She  won- 
dered uneasily  what  would  happen,  but  she  might 
have  saved  herself  the  trouble,  for  only  the  direct 
and  definite  could  happen  where  Jacques  was 
concerned. 

"You  see  I  have  come  back,"  he  said. 

She  tried  to  smile  as  if  this  remark  were  a 
mere  commonplace,  but  with  his  frank  eyes  upon 
her,  and  the  unmistakable  meaning  in  them,  her 
attempt  was  a  failure. 

"Tell  me  of  your  life,"  he  continued.  "What 
have  you  done  this  year  and  a  half?  Has  the 
philanthropy  prospered?  " 

"  Please  do  not  use  that  maudlin  word  '  philan- 
thropy,' "  she  protested. 

He  laughed  good-naturedly. 

"Tell  me  about  the  things  you  have  done,"  he 


334  DIANA   VICTEIX 

reiterated.  "Pardon  me  if  I  use  incorrect  terms; 
I  am  Southern  and  unenlightened,  you  know !  " 

She  gave  him  a  lame,  dispirited  account  of  her 
days,  of  her  many  committees  and  classes.  She 
recited  perfunctorily  the  programme  of  the  Labor 
Union  to  which  she  belonged.  She  told  him 
about  some  of  the  people  who  lived  in  the  little 
court.  She  even  touched  lightly  upon  industrial 
questions  and  her  unfortunate  position  in  the 
present  strike.  All  that  she  said  seemed  to  her 
flat;  and  she  knew  that  to  this  young  cotton- 
broker,  accustomed  to  rapid  action  and  decisive 
results,  her  tale  of  beginnings,  of  cautious  experi- 
ments, of  unfinished  systems,  and  half-developed 
theories  which  might  not  prove  their  usefulness 
and  efficiency  for  several  generations,  seemed  a 
recital  of  useless  efforts  towards  a  fanciful  Uto- 
pia. 

She  ended  with  as  little  enthusiasm  as  she  had 
begun,  and  waited  indifferently  for  him  to  speak. 

He  had  been  studying  her  face  while  she  talked, 
as  if  he  found  something  new  there. 

"Are  you  happy?"  he  asked,  still  scanning 
her  curiously. 

The  question  roused  her,  and  she  drew  back 
her  head  and  gazed  at  him  with  startled  eyes,  as 
if  considering  before  she  answered :  — 

"Yes,  very  happy! " 

Her  voice  was  quiet  and  assured. 

He  continued  to  watch  her,  and  waited,  as  if 


IF  AT  FIRST   YOU  DON'T  SUCCEED      335 

expecting  her  to  think  better  of  her  reply,  but 
she  went  on  presently :  — 

"  Happiness  is  not  necessarily  mirth  and  laugh- 
ter and  jokes,  and  ease  and  luxury,  and"  — 

"  And  sympathy  ?"  he  added. 

She  winced,  and  was  angry  that  he  should  have 
detected  this  flaw  in  her  narrative. 

"I  have  Sylvia!"  she  said  proudly,  and  held 
her  head  very  erect.  But  her  lips  quivered. 

He  lifted  his  eyebrows,  and  tapped  one  foot 
impatiently  on  the  floor. 

"And  Mademoiselle  Sylvia,  —  has  she  the  same 
aversion  to  matrimony?  If  not,  it  would  be  un- 
fortunate." 

Enid  gave  him  a  glance  that  ought  to  have  an- 
nihilated him  on  the  spot,  and,  turning  her  head 
away  to  the  window,  did  not  deign  to  reply. 

He  got  up  then  and  came  and  stood  beside  her 
chair,  looking  down,  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"You  think  I  do  not  care  for  the  things  you 
care  for,"  he  said  wistfully.  "But  that  is  not 
true.  If  I  tease  sometimes,  that  does  not  mean 
that  I  care  for  you  less  deeply.  These  are  very 
beautiful  theories  that  you  have.  They  are  noble, 
like  you.  If  I  cannot  see  always  that  they  are 
practical,  that  is  partly  because  I  have  lived  a 
long  time  in  the  world  of  action,  and  I  know  that, 
if  you  don't  down  the  world,  the  world  will  down 
you.  It  is  an  ugly  thing  to  know,  yes!  Your 
way  ought  to  be  the  true  way,  —  your  beautiful 


336  DIANA   VICTRIX 

dream.  But  —  experience  makes  me  skeptical. 
Nevertheless,  I  should  like  to  help  you.  I  will 
never  laugh,  and  when  you  are  tired,  —  I  think 
you  are  tired  sometimes,  —  and  when  your  people 
are  ungrateful  and  the  theory  is  slow  in  working, 
I  will  —  I  will" - 

His  voice  was  full  of  pleading,  and,  instead  of 
finishing  his  sentence,  he  laid  one  hand  gently  on 
her  shoulder,  but  she  turned  such  troubled  eyes 
on  him  he  took  the  hand  away  again  and  put  it 
back  in  his  pocket. 

"I  believe  in  you!"  he  said.  "I  will  stand 
by  you  in  all  that  you  do.  You  shall  teach  me 
to  understand.  You  shall  make  friends  with  all 
the  little  shop  people  in  French-town.  We  will 
give  them  afternoon  teas  and  let  them  bring  their 
children.  Why  not  there  as  well  as  here?  Lis- 
ten! You  are  generous,  you  are  reasonable.  I 
cannot  see  that,  under  the  present  industrial  sys- 
tem, I  conduct  my  business  other  than  as  an  hon- 
orable man.  It  is  considered  a  legitimate  busi- 
ness. Moreover,  I  have  a  family  to  take  care  of, 
—  a  father,  a  mother,  and  now  Jocelin,  who  will 
be  more  and  more  an  expense  until  he  dies.  I 
have  no  right  to  give  up  my  business  for  the  sake 
of  a  chimera.  What  would  become  of  those  who 
are  dependent  upon  me  and  who  cannot  work? 
Perhaps  some  day,  who  knows?  —  I  might  be  able 
to  retire.  I  am  not  greedy ;  I  do  not  anticipate 
being  all  my  life  a  stock -broker.  I  promise  that 


IF  AT  FIRST   YOU  DON'T  SUCCEED      337 

you  shall  not  have  the  business  to  complain  of 
any  longer  than  it  will  take  me  to  lay  by  a  com- 
petence. I  believe  in  you !  It  will  not  be  diffi- 
cult, therefore,  to  make  me  believe  in  your  theo- 
ries. Come  down  there,  and  teach  us  the  efficacy 
of  that  eight-hour  day,  and  that  trade  union. 
We  do  not  work  so  rapidly  on  these  lines;  we 
need  some  one  to  wake  us  up." 

She  did  not  move,  and  he  could  not  see  her 
face,  but  her  silence  gave  him  courage. 

"That  old  house  is  so  quiet!  There  are  no 
voices  in  it  all  day  long.  Your  heart  would  ache 
if  you  could  see  how  dull  it  is.  My  father  is 
lonely  and  maman  frets.  I  come  in  at  night  to 
dinner,  and  there  are  only  memories  of  people  to 
greet  me.  And  I  live  over  all  those  days  of  our 
Jeanne's  winter.  Do  you  remember  them?  And 
you  are  everywhere.  I  speak  to  you  again,  and 
quarrel  with  you,  and  read  aloud  from  those  thick 
books.  I  want  you!  Come  and  make  a  home 
for  me !  It  is  no  home  now ;  it  is  only  a  dingy 
house  where  two  old  people  live  with  a  man  who 
is  lonely.  You  shall  do  as  you  like  with  the 
rooms.  Come  and  make  them  look  like  this  one, 
—  as  if  you  lived  in  them.  When  the  world  and 
>  your  people  hurt  you,  I  will  not  hurt  you ;  I  will 
believe  in  you.  Give  me  the  right  to  comfort 
you!" 

How  low  he  spoke !  And  he  waited,  standing 
beside  her,  for  his  answer. 


338  UIANA    VICTRIX 

Poor  Enid!  It  was  cruel  to  come  to  you  then, 
when  you  were  weary,  and  a  few  kind  words  made 
you  hungry  for  more.  Home  had  such  a  sweet 
sound  I  And  he  was  an  upright  man,  a  good 
son. 

"Go  away!  please  go  away!  "  she  said  tremu- 
lously. 

"No!  "  he  whispered.  "No!  Is  not  the  year 
and  a  half  enough  ?  Have  you  not  learned  your 
world  ?  I  have  waited  so  long  !  Do  not  send  me 
away  now!  And  oh,  the  dear  eyes,  the  dear 
eyes!  Who  has  brought  that  look  into  them?  " 

Her  answer  was  a  sob,  just  one  long  sob  with- 
out any  tears.  She  pressed  her  hands  tightly 
together  in  her  lap,  and  looked  up  at  him  while 
he  spoke. 

"I  shall  work  all  my  life,  so  that  you  may 
never  be  sorry  you  came  to  me.  I  will  not  be 
impatient;  I  will  not  ask  you  to  come  at  once. 
No;  it  is  better  to  wait  a  few  months.  It  will 
not  be  pleasant  while  Jocelin  is  there." 

"Jocelin!" 

Thoughts  began  to  race  through  Enid's  mind. 
What  was  this  she  was  doing  ?  Jocelin ! 

"  He  is  ill.  In  fact  he  is  —  a  little  touched  in 
the  upper  story.  He  will  be  worse  before  the 
end,  and  I  know  maman  will  never  be  persuaded 
to  put  him  anywhere  else  as  long  as  he  lives. 
No,  I  would  not  bring  you  there  while  he  is  in 
the  house.  I  will  be  patient " 


IF  AT  FIRST   YOU  DON'T  SUCCEED      339 

"No,  no!  Hush!  "  she  cried,  standing  up  sud- 
denly and  waving  him  away.  "You  are  mis- 
taken! What  are  you  saying?  I  do  not  want 
to!  I  never  wanted  to!  I  did  not  know  what  I 
was  doing!  I  was  tired,  and  you  are  a  good 
friend,  but  I  do  not  love  you  well  enough  —  oh, 
no!  not  nearly  well  enough!  Leave  my  people? 
My  work?  Leave  Sylvia?  Above  all,  I  could 
not  think  of  leaving  Sylvia  now." 

She  was  so  excited  she  forgot  how  plainly  she 
spoke,  but  he  was  too  disappointed  to  understand 
her  allusion. 

"For  a  moment,  because  I  was  tired,  I  thought 
I  wanted  your  —  your  home.  But  I  do  not ! 
Why,  of  course  I  do  not,  really !  I  am  not  do- 
mestic—  the  way  some  women  are.  I  should  n't 
like  to  keep  house  and  sew  and  —  and  —  some- 
times I  think  I  should,  and  —  but  it  would  bore 
me.  I  should  hate  it!  Sylvia  and  I  share  the 
responsibility  here,  and  the  maid  works  faith- 
fully. There  are  only  a  few  rooms.  We  have 
time  for  our  real  work,  but  a  wife  would  n't 
have.  And,  oh!  I  couldn't  be  just  a  wife  !  I 
don't  want  to  !  Please  go  away  !  I  have  chosen 
my  life  and  I  love  it.  I  do  not  mind  the  rebuffs 
and  the  distrust.  With  my  best  self  I  do  not 
mind  them.  Believe  me,  my  happiness  lies  this 
way,  and  I  am  very  pleased  in  my  life.  I  do  not 
need  your  pity.  Forgive  me  for  having  hurt 
you  !  Your  love  has  made  my  life  more  full ;  it 


340  DIANA    VICTEIX 

has  crowned  my  womanhood.  But  even  if  I  had 
consented  to-day,  I  should  have  come  to  my  senses 
to-morrow  and  broken  my  engagement.  Oh  !  " 
she  exclaimed,  as  the  full  meaning  of  her  narrow 
escape  burst  upon  her,  "how  dreadful  it  would 
have  been  if  I  had  married  you  !  " 

The  remark  was  not  complimentary,  and  the 
expression  on  Jacques'  face  brought  her  back  to 
a  saving  realization  of  her  conduct. 

"  Go  away  now  and  find  a  woman  who  will  be 
a  better  wife!  I  do  not  love  you, —  don't  you 
see?  Else  —  I  might  feel  you  needed  me  more 
than  my  work  —  or  Sylvia." 

When  he  had  gone,  she  sat  on  the  window-seat 
trembling  nervously.  Jocelin  was  dying,  and 
Sylvia  belonged  to  her.  She  need  not  be  lonely 
*any  longer,  at  least  not  more  lonely  than  many 
women.  And  her  work  !  Oh,  the  thought  of 
being  deprived  of  that  !  With  only  his  love  in 
return,  his  love  and  his  amiable  domestic  tyranny  ! 

Her  courage  was  coming  back,  and  the  reac- 
tion from  her  previous  despondency  had  set  in. 
She  began  to  think  vigorously  and  hopefully  once 
more. 

Sylvia  found  her  sitting  alone  in  the  twilight. 

"Mr.  Dumarais  has  gone?  " 

"Yes,  he  said  he  would  come  in  to-morrow 
and  say  good -by!  He  leaves  by  the  night  train." 

They  were  silent,  thinking  each  of  her  own 
trouble,  till  Enid  said :  — 


IF  AT  FIRST   YOU  DON'T  SUCCEED      341 

"  We  shall  have  to  be  very  good  to  each  other 
the  older  we  grow,  —  we  two  lonely  old  maids,  — 
shan't  we,  Sylvia?  " 

Sylvia,  put  on  her  guard  by  the  pathos  in 
Enid's  voice,  and  thinking  of  her  own  loneliness, 
moved  away  to  the  fire  and  replied :  — 

"We  always  are  good  to  each  other,  — aren't 
we?  At  least  you  are  good  to  me.  You  must 
not  feel  blue  about  that  strike,  Enid." 

"Oh,  I  don't  any  more!  Some  day,  Sylvia, 
I  want  to  tell  you  something." 

"Yes,  dear!"  Sylvia  was  gazing  absently  at 
the  fire.  She  did  not  say  "What  is  it?"  nor 
"Why  not  tell  me  now?"  She  did  not  mean  to 
be  unsympathetic,  but  she  had  had  a  difficult 
afternoon. 


CHAPTER   VI 

SYLVIA   UNDERSTANDS 

"I  HAVE  business  which  keeps  me  here  till  to- 
morrow," Jacques  had  said;  "I  will  call  in  the 
afternoon  and  tell  Miss  Sylvia  good-by." 

And  as  he  walked  down  the  little  court  the  day 
after  his  interview  with  Enid,  he  was  burning 
with  a  desire  to  give  "Miss  Sylvia"  a  piece  of 
his  mind. 

Fortune  favored  him,  for  he  met  Enid  coming 
away  from  the  tenement.  She  had  a  private 
class  the  next  hour,  and  felt  relieved  at  being 
able  to  say  good-by  to  Jacques  formally  on  the 
street.  She  said  Sylvia  was  expecting  him. 

Jacques  had  never  known  Sylvia  well.  He 
had  always  thought  her  a  trifle  sentimental,  and 
he  was  particularly  scornful  of  sentimentality. 
Moreover,  she  had  tolerated  Jocelin,  which  ar- 
gued a  certain  weakness  in  her,  —  at  least  in 
Jacques'  opinion.  He  had  always  taken  pains  to 
be  scrupulously,  unfeelingly  polite  to  her ;  where- 
fore Sylvia,  who  was  sensitive,  divined  that  he 
had  some  grudge  against  her,  and  wondered, 
when  she  thought  about  him,  —  which  was  not 


SYLVIA    UNDERSTANDS  343 

often,  —  what  the  reason  for  his  dislike  might  be. 
He  took  for  granted,  knowing  the  close  relation 
between  the  two  women,  that  Sylvia  was  aware 
of  his  attitude  towards  Enid,  and,  although  to  a 
certain  extent  he  resented  this,  he  did  not  wholly 
disapprove,  since  it  gave  him  an  opportunity  for 
a  frankness  of  speech  which,  in  his  present  in- 
jured frame  of  mind,  he  was  loath  to  forego. 

"What  a  pity!"  said  Sylvia  genially,  when 
she  opened  the  door  in  answer  to  his  knock; 
"  Enid  has  just  gone  out !  She  will  be  so  sorry 
to  have  missed  you  !  But  perhaps  you  can  stay 
till  she  comes  back?" 

Jacques  looked  at  her  in  grim  silence,  and  in- 
wardly anathematized  the  duplicity  of  woman. 

"I  met  her  in  the  street,"  he  said  solemnly, 
when  he  had  passed  into  the  room  and  divested 
himself  of  his  overcoat. 

"Ah,  I  am  glad !  "  smiled  Sylvia.  "Take  that 
other  chair,  Mr.  Dumarais ;  you  will  find  it  more 
comfortable.  Our  little  apartment  was  so  essen- 
tially feminine  after  we  furnished  it  that  we 
bought  the  large  armchair  in  order  to  give  an 
air  of  masculine  protection  to  the  rooms.  Father 
always  flees  to  it  as  to  a  refuge  when  he  comes 
to  see  us." 

Jacques  took  the  proffered  chair  with  unsmil- 
ing dignity,  and  seated  himself  at  one  side  of 
the  fire  opposite  Sylvia,  who  had  drawn  up  a 
rocking-chair  and  was  busying  herself  with  some 
embroidery. 


344  DIANA   VICTRIX 

"You  are  making  Boston  a  flying  visit,  Mr. 
Dumarais,"  she  said,  with  exasperating  cheerful- 
ness. 

"I  see  no  reason  why  I  should  remain  longer,'1 
he  answered  bitterly.  "The  sooner  I  go,  the 
pleasanter  it  will  be  for  all  parties." 

She  looked  up  from  her  work  in  surprise  and 
waited  for  him  to  explain,  but  he  had  shut  his 
lips  together  and  was  staring  at  her  defiantly. 

"I  am  sorry  if  your  business  here  has  not  been 
successful,"  she  ventured. 

"Mademoiselle,  I  do  not  see  the  necessity  for 
our  keeping  up  a  farcical  pretense  of  ignorance 
concerning  a  situation  with  which  we  are  both 
thoroughly  acquainted,"  he  said,  with  haughty 
incisiveness.  "If  I  have  not  been  successful,  it 
is  because  your  influence  has  proved  too  powerful 
against  me.  You  fill  her  life,  she  says,  so  that 
she  has  no  need  of  the  other  kind  of  love.  It 
is  a  thing  improbable,  but  she  says  it  is  true. 
Evidently  I  do  not  understand  women.  And  she, 
she  will  not  understand  me  when  I  try  to  explain 
the  difference.  You  have  a  loyal  friend,  made- 
moiselle. I  waited  a  long  time,  —  a  year  and  a 
half,  —  and  life  has  not  been  easy  for  her.  And 
you,  whom  she  cares  for,  —  have  you  tried  to 
make  it  easier,  as  I  wanted  to  do  ?  But  my  wait- 
ing makes  no  difference;  she  says  you  need  her, 
and  that  seems  to  be  sufficient." 

He  had  risen,  and  his  next  words  were  stern :  — 


SYLVIA    UNDERSTANDS  345 

"  Do  you  also  be  loyal !  for  I  say  that  the  time  I 
is  not  far  off  —  look  in  her  eyes  and  see  !  —  when 
she  shall  need,  not  you,  not  you,  the  woman 
friend  alone,,  but  husband  and  little  children. 
See  that  you  be  all  these  to  her  then!  If  you 
can  !  Yes,  if  you  can !  For,  when  that  day 
comes,  and  she  has  not  her  need,  I  do  not  know 
in  whose  heart  will  lie  the  deepest  bitterness,  — -. 
in  hers,  or  mine,  or  yours  !" 

For  the  moment,  Sylvia  was  startled  out  of  all 
power  of  speech.  Her  lips  moved,  but  no  sound 
came  from  them.  She  could  only  motion  to  him 
to  be  seated. 

He  sat  down  again,  as  if  it  made  little  differ- 
ence to  him  what  he  did,  and  contemplated  the 
fire  moodily,  waiting  for  her  to  speak.  Poor 
Sylvia!  her  whirling  thoughts  made  her  dizzy. 
She  remembered  so  many  things  now  which  she 
had  not  taken  the  trouble  to  understand  before. 

A  year  and  a  half  ago ! 

Her  throat  contracted  so  that  she  gave  a  little 
gasp,  and  Jacques,  thinking  she  meant  to  speak, 
lifted  his  head,  but  her  eyes  were  looking  at  him 
appealingly  through  tears;  he  saw  she  could  not 
trust  her  voice,  and  he  lowered  his  eyes  without 
comment.  Did  not  he  suffer  also? 

"I  must  say  something  to  stop  this  silence!" 
she  thought  nervously. 

There  was  much  that  she  did  not  understand, 
—  and  he  thought  Enid  had  told  her  all  about  it. 


346  DIANA    VICTBIX 

She  would  wait  and  find  out,  but  now  she  could 
set  him  straight  about  one  fact:  he  was  under 
a  queer  misapprehension  concerning  Enid's  mo- 
tive for  refusing  him. 

"Mr.  Dumarais"  (her  low  musical  voice  trem- 
bled at  first),  —  "Mr.  Dumarais,  you  make  a 
grievous  mistake  when  you  say  that  Enid  does 
not  marry  because  of  me.  Indeed,  indeed  you 
do!  And,  for  Enid's  sake,  I  cannot  let  you  go 
away  harboring  such  a  thought  of  her.  All  indi- 
viduals hold  a  second  place  with  Enid,  because  of 
her  work.  This  has  been  true  ever  since  I  have 
known  her.  Even  when  we  were  young  girls 
together  in  college,  theories,  humanity,  came  first 
with  her,  and  personal  friends  second.  I  used 
to  rebel  against  the  preoccupation  then,  the  ap- 
parent indifference  with  which  she  sacrificed  her 
friends  to  her  work.  But  now  I  —  I"  —Sylvia 
faltered  here,  uncomfortably  aware  of  one  of  the 
reasons  for  no  longer  rebelling  —  "but  now  I  am 
older,  and  I  know  that  I  honor  her  more  than  I 
ever  did  before.  And  I  believe  that  her  way  of 
life  is  right  —  for  her.  I  wish  there  were  more 
of  us  who  could  set  aside  our  own  selfish  sorrows, 
as  she  sets  aside  hers,  and  lose  ourselves  in  the 
needs  of  other  people." 

"She  said  you  needed  her,"  repeated  Jacques 
stubbornly.  "Her  work!  —  I  do  not  quarrel 
with  her  work !  I  have  told  her  that  she  shall  do 
it  just  as  she  always  has." 


SYLVIA   UNDERSTANDS  347 

"But  she  couldn't!  "  Sylvia  interrupted.  "A 
married  woman  has  other  duties.  Enid  is  free 
now;  even  her  teaching,  by  which  she  earns  her 
living,  is  along  the  same  line  with  her  social  and 
industrial  work.  You  think  it  is  my  fault.  You 
will  not  be  convinced,  and  I  am  sorry,  but  indeed 
I  am  not  to  blame.  If  she  had  to  choose  between 
giving  me  up  and  carrying  out  her  theories,  she 
would  give  me  up,  and  I  would  wish  it  so." 

"Oh,  yes!  I  am  not  denying  that  you  could 
give  her  up,"  said  Jacques. 

She  colored. 

"You  are  cruel,  Mr.  Dumarais!  It  is  true 
/  that  I  do  not  love  her  as  she  deserves  to  be  loved, 
but  perhaps  you  do  not  either.  She  is  worthy  of 
a  very  great  love ;  no  one  knows  that  better  than 
I.  I  thank  you  for  confiding  in  me  to-day;  I 
thank  you  for  rousing  me  to  a  sense  of  my  duty, 
and  to  a  knowledge  of  how  dearly  I  do  love  her, 
—  for  you  have  done  that.  And,  for  the  other 
things  you  said,  do  not  imagine  that  a  woman, 
vjbvery  woman,  who  elects  to  remain  unmarried, 
does  not  take  those  things  into  consideration 
when  she  makes  her  choice.  We  are  not  young 
gjirls,  Enid  and  I;  we  understand  what  we  give 
up  as  well  as  what  we  gain.  Do  not  be  afraid 
of  that!  Believe  me,  I  have  not  tried  to  come 
between  you.  Do  not  be  angry,  Mr.  Dumarais ! 
There  are  not  many  women  like  her ;  she  cannot 
belong  just  to  you,  or  just  to  me ;  she  must  be- 
long to  the  world." 


348  DIANA    VICTRIX 

He  was  standing  up  again  as  he  said :  — 
"Mademoiselle,  you  can  understand,  perhaps, 
that  I  am  not  in  a  mood  to  look  at  things  from 

O 

a  gay  point  of  view;  therefore  pardon  me  if  I 
seem  to  you  ungracious.  I  come  here  and  I  find 
her  working  for  people  who  do  not  understand, 
in  the  face  of  adverse  criticism.  I  find  her  weary ; 
I  find  her  —  more  beautiful  than  ever.  And  I 
would  shelter  her;  I  would  give  her  a  home,  and 
money,  and  sympathy.  But  she  says  —  you  need 
her." 

"  If  she  loved  you,  she  might  realize  that  yours 
was  the  greater  need,  Mr.  Dumarais !  " 

Enid  herself  had  told  him  that,  and  he  knew  it 
was  true. 

"But,"  Sylvia  reiterated,  "it  is  her  work  that 
stands  between  you  and  her;  it  is  not  I." 

And  still  he  shook  his  head  obstinately.  But 
he  apologized  for  any  seeming  rudeness  of  which 
he  might  have  been  guilty. 

"Poor  fellow!  "  Sylvia  thought,  as  she  watched 
him  hurrying  down  the  bleak  little  court.  "It 
would  have  been  absurd  for  Enid  to  have  married 
him.  I  wonder  why  he  couldn't  see  it?  He  felt 
very  much  abused.  But  I  know  he  is  mistaken 
about  her  motive  for  not  marrying.  I  know  he 
is !  With  all  their  polish,  what  a  nai've  charm  of 
childlike  directness  these  Frenchmen  have." 

Her  eyes  grew  sad,  and  she  turned  listlessly 
away  from  the  window. 


SYLVIA    UNDERSTANDS  349 

Enid  prolonged  her  absence  intentionally,  but 
came  home  at  last  to  a  smiling  and  penitent 
Sylvia,  who  looked  into  her  face  and  shook  her 
gently,  saying  :- 

"I  '11  overlook  it  this  once;  but  the  next  time 
you  rush  off  and  leave  me  alone  with  your  rejected 
lovers,  I  shall  conclude  that  you  have  designs 
upon  my  life,  and  I  shall  depart  by  way  of  the 
fire-escape." 

Enid  blushed  and  stammered,  but  Sylvia  put 
her  arms  around  her  and  whispered :  — 

"He  thought  I  knew  all  about  it,  and  he  told 
me  it  was  my  fault,  and  he  lectured  me  on  my 
duty.  My  dear,  dear !  I  have  been  very,  very, 
—  ah  !  I  hope  I  have  not  been  cruel !  I  never 
meant  to  be.  I  was  preoccupied,  and  self-cen- 
tred, and  " 

"  I  should  like  to  know  what  he  means  by  com- 
ing here  and  presuming  to  take  you  to  task!" 
cried  Enid,  with  considerable  indignation. 

"I  told  him  he  was  mistaken,  dear!"  said 
Sylvia.  "I  told  him  it  was  not  my  fault.  Your 
work  kept  you  from  marrying  him.  But  he 
was  unhappy,  and  I  could  not  seem  to  convince 
him." 

She  was  taking  off  Enid's  hat  and  cloak  now. 

"  He  took  it  very  hard,  poor  fellow !  And  he 
was  amazingly  frank  with  me." 

She  laid  the  cloak  on  a  chair,  and  turned  back 
to  Enid. 


350  DIANA    VICTRIX 

"I  did  not  tell  him  I  did  not  know  about  it," 
she  said,  and  the  color  rushed  into  her  face ;  "  I 
thought  you  would  rather  he  did  not  know  that. 
And,  —  besides,  I  suppose  it  was  pride,  but  1 
could  not.  So  I  let  him  talk." 

"Thank  you,  dear!"  said  Enid  softly.  And 
after  a  few  minutes,  during  which  they  stood  side 
by  side  before  the  fire  without  looking  at  each 
other,  "I  have  always  meant  to  tell  you  as  soon 
as  you  were  not  too  busy  to  listen.  You  know 
that,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,  I  know.  It  was  my  fault.  Yes"  (very 
quietly),  "you  need  not  protest;  it  was  my  fault. 
Do  you  want  to  tell  me  now  ?  I  should  like  to 
hear." 

Enid  nodded,  and  they  settled  themselves  for 
a  talk,  Sylvia  in  the  great  chair,  and  Enid  on 
the  hearth-rug  with  her  arm  across  Sylvia's 
knee. 

"  I  began  to  know  how  he  felt  on  the  night  of 
Curtis  Baird's  dinner  " 

Sylvia  moved  uneasily.  She  had  made  a  little 
discovery  herself  that  same  night. 

"We  had  a  quarrel  in  the  opera-box  at  the 
ball." 

It  was  Enid's  turn  to  shift  her  position  now, 
remembering  the  cause  of  that  quarrel.  No,  she 
must  not  say  what  it  was  about.  Sylvia  might 
feel  forced  to  say  things  which  she  did  not  care 
to  say. 


SYLVIA    UNDERSTANDS  351 

"I  think  he  had  not  realized  it  himself  till 
then,  and  I  did  not  let  him  see  that  I  noticed  the 
difference." 

"It  is  strange,"  mused  Sylvia,  "but  I  always 
thought  he  was  in  love  with  Jeanne.  I  thought 
that  was  one  of  the  reasons  why  we  were  all  so 
sorry  Jeanne  died.  Oh,  poor  little  child !  " 

"She  never  found  out,"  said  Enid,  "and  he 
—  well,  no,  I  don't  suppose  I  do  know  what  he 
would  have  done.  However,  it  doesn't  matter 
now." 

She  leaned  her  head  against  Sylvia's  knee,  and 
was  silent  a  few  moments. 

"It  was  on  the  mountain-top  that  he  asked  me 
to  marry  him.  I  tried  to  tell  you  that  night,  but 
you  were  too  tired.  And  afterwards,  when  I 
had  wanted  to  talk  to  you  alone  several  times, 
you  said  '  perhaps  there  were  some  things  we 
ought  not  to  speak  of  even  to  each  other. ' ' 

"Oh!"  cried  Sylvia. 

It  was  a  sharp  sound,  full  of  pain,  and  she 
leaned  down,  her  arms  around  Enid's  neck,  her 
face  hidden  in  Enid's  hair. 

"I  did  not  understand,"  she  said.  "I 
thought "  - 

But  she  did  not  go  on  to  explain  what  she  had 
thought.  She  changed  the  sentence. 

"I  was  preoccupied." 

"Yes,  I  hoped  you  would  let  me  tell  you  some 
day." 


352  DIANA    VICTRIX 

"You  refused  him,  then,  Enid?  Or  was  it 
only  a  postponement?  " 

"No,  I  refused  him  positively,  but  he  was  per- 
sistent, and  said  he  should  come  back.  I  tried 
to  tell  him  about  my  work  and  the  life  that  I 
must  lead,  but  you  must  know  how  difficult  that 
was,  when  he  was  so  completely  out  of  touch. 
And  at  last,  when  he  continued  to  be  obstinate, 
I  told  him  about  you." 

"About  me?" 

"Yes!  That  I  had  no  need  of  him,  because 
you  shared  my  life  as  he  could  never  share  it. 
That  you  were  first,  and  therefore  he  could  not 
be  first." 

^  "Enid!  Enid,  dear!" 

\  "Why,  yes!  You  know  you  are  more  to  me 
than  he  could  ever  be.  We  are  congenial,  we 
understand  each  other,  but  he  and  so  many  other 
men  live  in  a  different  world  from  ours.  Some- 
thing more  than  mere  proximity  is  necessary,  in 
these  days,  to  make  men  and  women  fall  in  love 
with  each  other ;  we  are  not  as  susceptible  as  we 
\  used  to  be." 

"Of  course  I  don't  mean,"  she  continued  after 
a  patise,  addressing  the  fire  and  smiling  suddenly, 
—  "I  don't  mean  that  a  common  purpose  and  a 
common  work  are  sufficient.  There  are  a  num- 
ber of  young  men  here  who  share  my  views  and 
willingly  cooperate  with  me.  To  be  sure,  they 
are  most  of  them  clergymen  who  don't  intend  to 


SYLVIA    UNDERSTANDS  353 

marry,  but  that  doesn't  make  any  difference;  it 
would  be  so  delightfully  improper  of  me  if  I 
could  fall  in  love  with  one  of  them,  or  even  sev- 
eral, but  I  can't.  The  fact  remains  that  you 
come  first.  You  are  my  friend.  I  have  so  many 
friends,  I  cannot  count  them.  And  he,  the  im- 
possible he,  would  have  to  be  the  first  friend  on 
the  list,  which  cannot  be,  since  that  is  your 
place." 

She  lowered  her  voice  and  added :  — 

"It  is  twelve  years  now  —  did  you  know  it? 
—  since  we  began  to  be  friends." 

Sylvia  held  her  closer,  and  looked  over  her 
head  into  the  fire,  saying  nothing. 

"How  I  used  to  build  air-castles  when  we  were 
girls  !  Do  you  remember  ?  I  used  to  say  we 
would  work  together,  vindicating  our  theories  of 
democracy  and  industrial  economy,  you  by  writ- 
ing, I  by  living.  And,  lo!  the  dream  is  upon 
us,  and  we  knew  it  not.  The  dream  is  going 
to  last  all  our  lives  long  now,  Sylvia.  Do  you 
mind?  " 

"No!" 

"We  don't  get  up  and  laugh  and  dance  be- 
cause the  dream  has  come  true.  But  that  must 
be  because  we  think  it  would  not  be  dignified  to 
do  so,  as  I  am  thirty  and  you  are  twenty-nine. 
Yes,  doubtless  that  is  the  only  reason." 

She  smiled  and  clasped  her  hands  around  her 
knees,  still  looking  into  the  fire. 


354  DIANA    VICTRIX 

"When  my  mother  was  thirty,  she  had  lived 
her  life.  I  remember  she  said  to  me,  and  I  was 
only  ten,  '  I  have  lived  a  long  time,  Enid,  a  long 
time.'  She  was  very  tired  before  she  died.  But 
to-day,  when  one  is  thirty,  one  has  only  begun  to 
live,  and  the  long  time  is  all  to  be.  I  am  not 
complaining,  Sylvia;  there  will  be  results  some 
day,  —  there  are  results  now.  It  is  the  best  kind 
of  result  to  be  the  right  woman  in  the  right  place, 
and  that  is  what  I  am.  And  that  is  what  you 
are,  too.  You  will  taste  the  thing  that  I  have 
tasted,  presently;  men  call  it  success,  and  it  is 
very  sweet." 

"I  know,"  said  Sylvia.  "Father  will  be  so 
proud,  and  rather  astonished,  —  not  shocked,  I 
hope.  And  Fred  will  be  amused,  but  gratified. 
And  Fred's  wife  will  give  me  a  luncheon,  —  what 
a  trial  that  will  be !  And  if  the  book  is  a  suc- 
cess, a  number  of  people  will  look  at  me  curiously 
whenever  I  am  introduced  to  them,  and  young, 
would-be  authors  will  send  me  manuscripts  to  be 
criticised.  And  if  it  is  a  great  success,  perhaps 
I  shall  have  friendly  greetings  from  some  of  the 
really  great  people." 

"You  have  an  excellent  imagination,  my  dear! 
but  you  need  not  take  that  lofty  tone,  for  you 
will  enjoy  these  things  when  they  come,  even  if 
you  do  know  them  all  beforehand." 

"Yes,  I  know  that,  also!  "  said  Sylvia. 

"Can  you  carry  your  fancy  a  little  farther  and 


SYLVIA    UNDERSTANDS  355 

picture  us  at  seventy-five,  wearing  caps,  your 
literary  style  labeled  old-fashioned,  my  convic- 
tions branded  conservative  by  the  rising  genera- 
tion? " 

"Yes,  that,  too!"  smiled  Sylvia. 

"When  people  begin  to  call  me  conservative," 
said  Enid,  "I  shall  know  that  I  have  accom- 
plished something." 

"Enid!"  Sylvia  said,  speaking  with  effort, 
"  I  told  Mr.  Dumarais  that,  if  it  came  to  giving 
up  your  work  or  me,  you  would  give  me  up. 
Was  not  that  true?"  She  did  not  like  to  say, 
"I  hope  it  is  true." 

"Yes!"  Enid  answered  slowly,  "because  you 
would  always  belong  to  me,  in  my  heart.  No 
amount  of  giving  up  could  prevent  that.  That 
is  one  of  the  satisfactions  of  having  a  friend.  I 
do  not  seem  too  cold  or  transcendental,  —  do  I, 
dear  ?  We  need  not  discuss  such  a  mournful  sub- 
ject. I  am  not  put  to  the  test  of  giving  you  up. 
I  am  allowed  to  keep  you  and  the  work  also.  I 
am  very  blessed  in  my  life,  and  I  told  him  so, 
but  he  could  not  understand.  Nevertheless,  it 
was  finally  settled  yesterday.  And,  Sylvia,  I  am 
going  to  confess  something  very  wicked  now,  — 
even  though  I  have  refused  him,  I  can't  help 
taking  a  little  satisfaction  in  the  fact  that  he  — 
loved  me.  It  means  something  to  be  loved  by 
such  a  good  man.  And,  —  no  other  man  ever 
found  me  interesting  in  that  way  before.  I  am 


356  DIANA    VICTRIX 

glad  such  a  thoroughly  fine  and  upright  man 
should  wish  to  marry  me,  even  if  I  don't  approve 
of  his  convictions." 

She  laughed  a  little  over  that  last  word,  and 
Sylvia,  thinking  of  her  own  lover,  —  the  man  in 
whose  proposal  of  marriage  there  had  been  no 
honor,  —  felt  cold,  but  forced  a  smile. 


CHAPTER   VII 

A    BOOK    AND    A    BABY 

SYLVIA'S  book  came  out  in  the  spring,  and 
the  "author's  copies"  arrived  at  the  tenement 
one  bright  April  day  when  the  barren  court  was 
yellow  with  sunshine.  The  voices  of  children 
fluttered  up  through  the  open  window  all  around 
Sylvia,  where  she  knelt  on  the  floor,  with  her 
precious  books  in  a  row  on  the  window-seat  be- 
fore her.  She  had  thrust  Enid  laughingly  away 
from  them,  saying :  — 

"No,  no!  You  must  not  see  them  yet!  Not 
till  I  have  chosen  yours." 

And  there  she  had  knelt  in  silence  ever  since, 
touching  the  pretty  volumes  caressingly,  putting 
now  this  one,  now  that  one,  at  the  head  of  the 
row,  turning  the  pages  deftly,  as  if  she  were 
handling  velvet,  or,  with  hands  clasped,  brood- 
ing above  the  entire  collection,  her  face  trans- 
formed by  meditative  wonder. 

"It  takes  you  an  unconscionably  long  time  to 
choose  mine,"  laughed  Enid  from  the  depths  of 
the  arm-chair,  which  she  had  ostentatiously  placed 
with  its  back  to  the  window-seat.  "Aren't  they 


358  DIANA    VICTRIX 

all  alike  ?  I  have  a  very  interesting  letter  here 
from  Roma,  and  I  am  longing  to  read  it  to  you; 
but  you  have  banished  me  from  the  books,  and 
now  I  do  not  even  dare  to  seek  solace  in  talking 
of  other  things.  The  letter  is  extremely  interest- 
ing, not  to  say  exciting." 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  said  Sylvia.  "I  can  listen 
and  look  at  the  books,  too." 

"I  doubt  it,"  returned  Enid.  "However,  since 
you  insist,  Jacques  is  reported  engaged  to  one  of 
this  season's  debutantes,  a  Felicie  somebody,  —  I 
can't  make  out  the  last  name." 

Sylvia  wheeled  around  suddenly,  and,  meeting 
only  the  blank  expanse  of  the  back  of  the  arm- 
chair, arose  and  went  and  leaned  over  the  top  of 
it.  Enid  looked  up  backwards,  and  smiled  reas- 
suringly. 

"Roma  says  she  cannot  vouch  for  the  truth  of 
this,  as  she  herself  has  not  been  going  out  this 
winter;  but  Curtis  thinks  there  is  some  founda- 
tion for  it,  although  he  does  not  believe  it  has 
gone  to  the  length  of  an  engagement.  There  are 
two  more  pages  about  what  Curtis  thinks.  Shall 
we  skip  that  for  the  present?  They  don't  bear 
very  pertinently  upon  the  subject  in  hand.  You 
can  read  them  to  yourself  afterwards,  if  you 
like." 

"Enid,"  —Sylvia  had  come  around  to  the  side 
of  the  chair,  —  "you  are  sure  you  are  not  sorry?  " 

"That  Jacques  is  perhaps  engaged?  " 


A  BOOK  AND  A  BABY  359 

"Yes!" 

"No,  dear!"  Enid  spoke  softly,  and  there 
was  great  sweetness  in  her  clear  eyes  as  she 
lifted  them.  "No,  dear!  I  knew  he  would 
marry,  —  didn't  you?  I  shall  be  glad  when 
i  he  does.  The  world's  sons  need  to  be  fathered 
by  just  such  vigorous,  straightforward,  healthy 
minded  and  bodied  men.  Of  course,  if  he  had 
remained  unmarried  for  my  sake,  I  should  have 
felt  honored,  humbled,  too,  by  such  devotion; 
but  even  Dante,  in  his  adoration  for  Beatrice, 
you  remember,  did  not  go  to  such  lengths  of  ab- 
stinence as  that.  Men  don't.  To  me,  it  does 
not  argue  inconstancy." 

"I  wonder,"  Sylvia  murmured,  "if  she  is  like 
you?  This  other  girl,  I  mean." 

"No!  "  said  Enid,  with  sudden  emphasis. 

The  color  came  into  her  face,  and  she  lifted 
her  head  with  a  quick,  proud  little  motion. 

"He  would  not  do  that!  She  will  not  be  like 
me." 

And  then,  more  gently :  — 

"I  think  she  is  probably  like  Jeanne.  And  he 
will  love  her  dearly,  remembering  Jeanne,  and 
he  will  be  very  good  to  her." 

Sylvia  sat  down  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  and 
drew  Enid  to  her. 

"I  am  going  to  put  you  in  my  next  book,  —  did 
you  know  it?  "  she  said. 

"Oh,   no!"   smiled  Enid,   shaking  her  head. 


360 

"I  should  not  go  well  in  a  book;  I  'm  too  old, 
and  there  's  nothing  romantic  about  me ;  I'm 
stodgy." 

"I  know  better!"  Sylvia  contradicted  her, 
and,  after  a  pause,  mischievously,  "Shall  I  make 
you  marry  him  —  in  the  book?  " 
\  "Yes,  if  you  like!  It  would  be  quite  as  true 
to  life  as  the  other  way,  and  the  public  are  more 
used  to  it.  But  some  times,  Sylvia,  I  don't 
^marry,  — even  in  books." 

They  did  not  say  anything  for  a  while,  but  at 
last  Sylvia  broke  the  silence. 

"Was  that  the  only  news  in  Roma's  letter?" 

"No!  Let  me  see!  Oh,  yes!  She  says  it  is 
only  a  question  of  a  short  time  with  poor  Joce- 
lin." 

It  was  always  Enid,  not  Sylvia,  who  appeared 
embarrassed  at  the  mention  of  Jocelin's  name. 

"  She  says  no  one  sees  him  now  but  his  mother 
and  a  man-nurse  whom  Jacques  has  kept  all 
winter.  It  is  the  saddest  thing  I  know  of,  that 
life." 

"Anything  else?"  inquired  Sylvia. 

"Yes!  The  news  with  which  the  letter  opens, 
but  I  have  saved  it  till  the  end.  Roma  has  a  — 
little  — girl!" 

"Oh!" 

"Guess  what  she  is  going  to  name  her?" 

"Jeanne?" 

Enid's  face  fell. 


j; 


A  BOOK  AND  A  BABY  361 

"No!  I  never  thought  of  that.  I  wonder 
why  she  did  not  name  her  Jeanne?  " 

"Dear  little  Jeanne!"  said  Sylvia.  "And 
Roma  was  so  fond  of  her !  It  hurts  me  to  think 
that  in  a  little  while  there  will  not  be  even  the 
memory  of  her  on  earth.  I  wish  that  some  one 
might  bear  her  name  and  know  her  life." 

"She's  going  to  call  the  baby  Enid,  and  she 
wants  me  to  be  its  godmother,"  said  Enid  in  a 
low  tone. 

"  My  dear !  my  dear !  how  lovely !  I  'm  so 
happy!" 

"So  am  I!"  said  Enid  wistfully.  "I  can't 
help  feeling  glad  to  think  there  is  one  little  life 
in  the  world  which  I  have  some  claim  upon,  which 
I  can  do  things  for.  I  suppose  I  should  feel  very 
much  bored  and  bothered  if  I  had  to  take  care  of 

baby  every  day,  but,  somehow,  I  'm  glad  this 
one  will  have  my  name.  And  she  says  such  dear 
things  about  my  having  given  her  her  highest 
ideal  of  what  a  woman  ought  to  be.  Here,  read 
it,  if  you  like!  It  makes  me  blush.  Still,  I 
think  I  shall  write  and  suggest  Jeanne." 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Sylvia 
hastily.  "It  would  not  be  polite.  You  need  the 
comfort  of  that  baby  more  than  Jeanne  does. 
I  'd  rather  it  'should  have  your  name.  Perhaps 
Roma  will  have  another  one,  and  we  can  remind 
her  of  Jeanne  then." 

Sylvia  had  gone  to  the  window-seat  as  she  said 


362  DIANA    VICTRIX 

these  words,  and  now  she  returned  with  a  copy 
of  the  novel  in  her  hand. 

"You  will  have  to  be  godmother  to  this  child, 
too,"  she  said  shyly. 

And  Enid  opened  the  book  and  gave  a  little 
cry. 

It  was  dedicated  to  her. 


CAMBRIDGE,  MASSACHUSETTS,  U.  S.  A. 

ELECTROTYPED  AND  PRINTED  BY 

H.  O.   HOUGHTON  AND  CO. 


University  of  California  Library 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


NON-PEJABLE 

FEB  0  \  1996 

MElMrnj  DATE  RECEIVED 
3 15'" 


L 


A     000  082  936     6 


